Skip to main content

Full text of "Worlds of IF (October 1957)"

See other formats 


OCTOBER  35  CENTS 


WORLDS  OF 


SCIENCE  FICTION 


IN  THIS  ISSUE!  A thrilling  short  novel  about 
a deadly  secret  weapon  from  a strange  world 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 

By  Lloyd  Biggie,  Jr. 


One  of  the  year’*s  top 
science  fiction  treats! 

THE  FIRST 

WORLD  of  it 


TWENTY  outstanding  short  stories  se- 
lected from  the  first  five  years  of  IF  Mag- 
azine— covering  a greater  variety  of 
science  fiction  themes  than  you  have  ever 
before  encountered  in  one  volume.  You 
will  find  something  excitingly  different  in 
every  story — a thrilling  change  of  mood, 
idea,  theme  and  pace  . . . Don’t  miss  it — 
if  you  like  good  science  fiction!  Send  only 
50  cents  to  IF  Magazine,  Kingston,  New 
York,  and  a copy  will  be  mailed  to  you 
at  once! 


I GREAT  SHORT  STORIES  | 

I By  ROBERT  ABERNATHY  I 

I ISAAC  ASIMOV  I 

I CHARLES  BEAUMONT  I 

I JEROME  BIXBY  | 

I JAMES  BUSH  I 

I RICHARD  BOLTON  I 

I ED.  M.  CLINTON,  JR.  | 

I MIRIAM  ALLEN  DE  FORD  | 

I PHILIP  K.  DICK  I 

I KIRK  AND  GAREN  DRUSSAI  | 

I DAVE  DRYFOOS  1 

I CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY  1 

I HORACE  B.  FYFE  i 

I DICK  HETSCHEL  I 

I MILTON  LESSER  I 

I EDWARD  W.  LUDWIG  | 

I FRANK  RILEY  I 

I ROBERT  SHECKLEY  I 

1 GEORGE  H.  SMITH  I 

I ROBERT  F.  YOUNG  | 




WORLDS  of  SCIENCE  FICTION 

OCTOBER  1957 

All  Stories  New  and  Complete 

Editor:  JAMES  L.  QUINN 

Assist.  Editor:  EVE  WULFF 

Art  Director:  MEL  HUNTER 



NOVELETTES  | 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY  by  Lloyd  Biggie,  Jr.  4 | 

DARK  WINDOWS  by  Bryce  Walton  «2  | 

SHORT  STORIES 
I GAME  PRESERVE  by  Rog  Phillips 
I RX  by  Alan  E.  Nourse 
I THE  POORS  by  Harry  Lorayne 

I PUPPET  GOVERNMENT  by  George  Revelle 

1 FEATURES 

I EDITOR'S  REPORT 
I WHAT'S  YOUR  SCIENCE  I.Q.? 

I SCIENCE  BRIEFS 

I HUE  AND  CRY 

I COVER: 

I A Game  of  Marbles  by  Mel  Hunter  | 

^iiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiii<iiiii>iiiiiiiiimiiiimiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimii!i7 

IF  is  published  bi-monthly  by  Quinn  Publishing  Company,  Inc.  Volume  7,  No.  6. 
Copyright,  1957  by  Qmnn  Publisning  Co.,  Inc.  Office  of  ^blicatlon,  8 Lord  Street, 
Bunalo,  New  York.  JSntered  as  Second  Class  Matter  at  Post  Office,  Buffalo,  New 
York.  Subsciiption  $3.50  for  12  issues  in  U.S.  and  Possessions;  Canada  $4  for  12 
Issues;  elsewhere  $4.50.  Allow  four  weeks  for  change  of  address.  All  stories  appear- 
ing in  this  magazine  arc  fiction;  any  similarity  to  actual  persons  is  coincidental. 
Not  responsible  for  unsolicited  artwork  or  manuscripts.  35c  a copy.  Printed  in  U.S. A. 

EDITORIAL  AND  BUSINESS  OFFICES,  KINGSTON,  NEW  YORK 

Next  (December)  issue  on  sale  October  12th 


2 I 
47  I 
113  I 

116  I 


48  I 
84  I 
95  I 
104  I 


To  paraphrase  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land: “The  science  fiction  writing 
business  gets  curiouser  and  curi- 
ouser.”  We’ve  often  been  entranced 
by  the  professions  which  writers 
pursue  for  their  livelihood.  Beside 
professional  writers  of  television 
and  movie  scripts,  we  have  doctors, 
engineers,  university  professors  who 
teach  everything  from  biophysics  to 
ancients  languages,  anthropologists, 
insurance  investigators,  advertising 
men,  lawyers,  chemists  and  news- 
papermen. However,  two  writers 
who  are  new  to  IP’s  pages  are 
unique  even  in  such  distinguished 
company.  Lloyd  Biggie,  Jr.  (who 
wrote  Silence  is  Deadly  for  this  is- 
sue; and  is  also  responsible  for  The 
Tunesmiths  and  On  The  Dotted 
Line)  is  the  only  writer  we  know 
of  who  has  a PhD  in  music.  He 
claims  the  longest  epic  he  ever 
wrote  was  a 450  page  thesis  on 
Antonius  Brumel  the  15th  century 
composer.  However,  he  doesn’t  feel 
that  this  is  exactly  a direct  ap- 
proach to  becoming  a science  fic- 
tion writer!  Harry  Lorayne,  who 


wrote  what  we  think  is  a nice  sa- 
tiric little  comment  on  our  TV- 
ridden  lives  (The  Poors),  was  un- 
til a few  years  ago  considered  one 
of  the  top  card  manipulating  ma- 
gicians in  the  country.  Now  mem- 
ory is  his  business.  He  spends  most 
of  his  time  traveling  around  the 
country  doing  lecture  demonstra- 
tions on  what  can  be  done  with  a 
trained  memory.  This,  incidentally, 
includes  remembering  the  names 
and  faces  of  his  entire  audience 
after  meeting  them  only  once; 
memorizing  the  order  of  an  entire 
deck  of  cards  which  has  been  shuf- 
fled by  a volunteer;  memorizing 
the  entire  issue  of  any  chosen  cur- 
rent magazine,  etc.  He’s  so  good 
at  it  that  he’s  been  featured  in 
Ripley’s  Believe  It  Or  Not  column! 

Collecting  such  oddities  about  our 
authors  brings  another  thought  to 
mind,  one  which  most  editors  won- 
der about — What  about  our  read- 
ers? What  do  they  do?  Why  do 
they  read  science  fiction?  What 
makes  you,  the  reader,  pluck  IF 
from  the  newsstands?  We’d  really 
like  to  compile  a list  of  statistics 
concerning  you.  Too  many  people 
still  suffer  from  “shame”  about 
needing  to  defend  science  fiction 
as  their  favorite  reading  matter; 
and  we’d  like  to  print  some  rebut- 
tals to  help  both  science  fiction  and 
them.  Drop  us  a note,  tell  us  what 
you  do,  what  hobbies  you  pursue, 
what  you  like  in  science  fiction  and 
what  makes  you  buy  IF.  Is  it  writ- 
ers whose  yarns  you  know  you’ll 
like?  Is  it  covers?  (That,  of  course, 
brings  up  the  point  about  just  what 
sort  of  illustrations  you  do  like  on 


2 


your  covers.)  How  would  you  feel 
about  no  illustrations  at  all?  How 
about  featured  articles  like  the  re- 
cent Face  of  Mars  by  Dr.  Richard- 
son or  the  one  about  Why  Guided 
Missiles  Can  Not  Be  Controlled? 
We’ll  print  statistics  as  they  come 
in — bet  you’ll  be  suqDrised  to  find 
what  distinguished  company  you 
keep  when  you  read  IF.  As  an 
added  incentive  to  make  you  take 
pen,  pencil,  crayon  or  quill  in 
hand,  we’ll  send  a first  edition  of 
IF  to  the  first  one  hundred  letter 
writers. 

We\e  had  so  many  favorable  com- 
ments on  our  FIRST  WORLD  OF 
IF  anthology  (reader  comments, 
newspaper  and  magazine  reviews) 
that  we’re  planning  another  one 
real  soon — a “second  world.”  This 
time,  we  plan  to  reprint  novelettes 
from  our  first  six  years.  Some  of 
our  readers  have  already  sent  in 
suggestions  about  which  ones  they’d 
like  to  see. 

Frank  Riley,  who’s  been  absent 
from  IF’s  pages  for  far  too  long 
(busy  as  a beaver  with  TV  and 
movie  assignments)  has  sent  us  an 
unusual  story  for  the  December  is- 
sue. A Computer  Named  Eddie  is 
the  title,  and  Eddie  and  his  inventor 
are  something  really  unique  in  de- 
tective teams.  A missing  X-15 
guided  missile  and  plenty  of  red 
tape  and  security  problems  all 
promise  something  exciting  and 
new  in  the  realm  of  science  fiction. 
So  don’t  miss  A Computer  Named 
Eddie! 

Bob  Silverberg  (the  man  with  the 


13  by-lines  and  more  than  170 
stories  to  his  credit)  is  also  pound- 
ing away  on  a new  short  novel  for 
IF.  Incidentally,  Bob,  who  writes 
full  time  himself,  has  as  a spouse 
one  of  the  few  female  electronics 
engineers  extant  in  the  United 
States. 

If  you're  planning  to  be  in  New 
York  City  at  all  within  the  next 
month  or  two,  make  it  a sp>ecial 
p>oint  to  see  A Visit  to  a Small 
Planet  at  the  Booth  Theater.  You 
may  have  seen  it  on  TV,  but  for  a 
science  fiction  fan  the  expanded 
version  is  a must.  It’s  a smash  hit 
even  on  hard-bitten  Broadway. 
Take  Aunt  Matilda  too,  because 
even  the  most  determined  anti  sci- 
ence-fictioneer  will  be  delighted 
with  Cyril  Ritchard  and  Eddie 
Mayehoff.  After  the  black  eye 
science  fiction  got  with  Night  of 
the  Auk  a recent  Broadway  flop, 
this  play  with  its  delightful  whimsy 
and  humor  may  take  the  curse  off 
for  a good  many  years  to  come. 
Let’s  hope  that  Hollywood  picks 
this  one  up  (including  Ritchard 
and  Mayehoff)  and  gives  everyone 
a chance  to  see  what  good  enter- 
tainment science  fiction  can  be. 

Our  June  cover  has  started  what 
seems  to  be  an  interesting  little 
controversy  in  several  quarters.  The 
picture  was  titled  “Kodachrome 
from  the  Files  of  the  First  Mars 
Expedition,”  and  showed  theoreti- 
cal ships  about  to  make  a landing 
on  the  red  planet.  So  far  we’ve  had 
several  letters  in  which  people  want 
to  know  why  the  government  has 
(Continued  on  page  83) 


3 


What  was  the  secret  weapon  of  this  primitive  planet  where 
people  lived  in  mute  terror?  No  earthman  had  ever  seen 
it,  and  there  was  but  one  way  to  find  out  . . . 


DEADLY 


BY  LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


IT  WAS  AN  inter-galactic  crisis, 
with  border  clashes  between 
the  Federation  and  the  menacing 
Haarvian  Empire  strewing  space 
with  searing  debris  and  threatening 
to  erupt  into  total  war.  The  War 
Department  of  the  Federation  pin- 
pointed the  critical  area,  pinpointed 
the  critical  planet,  and  requested 
permission  to  act.  The  politicians 


refused.  And  while  the  admirals 
chaffed  angrily  and  the  politicians 
fussed  helplessly,  Space  Intelligence 
went  to  work  with  its  usual  quiet 
efficiency. 

Space  Intelligence  sent  in  agents, 
one  at  a time,  and  in  twos  and 
threes — specialists  and  non-special- 
ists, bold  youngsters  and  wily  vet- 
erans, professionals  and  uniquely- 


5 


qualified  amateurs.  And  one  at  a 
time,  and  by  twos  and  threes  they 
disappeared  without  a trace.  Space 
Intelligence  lost  seventeen  men  in 
two  months,  and  then  it  called  in 
Bran  Hilford. 

“You’ll  have  to  go  native,”  he 
was  told.  “It’ll  require  some  sur- 
gery.” 

Hilford  grinned  happily.  In  his 
forty  years  with  Space  Intelligence, 
he’d  had  his  body  reshaped  in  more 
ways  than  he  cared  to  remember. 
He’d  had  ears,  nose  and  mouth 
altered  and  re-altered.  His  head 
had  been  egg-shaped,  balloon- 
shaped, and  square.  The  irises  of 
his  eyes  had  been  tinted  a dozen 
different  colors.  As  a veteran  of 
missions  on  two  hundred  worlds, 
he  knew  that  anything  was  com- 
monplace under  at  least  one  sun. 
“Go  ahead,”  he  said,  “and  butcher 
me  up.” 

And  they  did. 

During  the  curious  convales- 
cence that  followed,  Hilford  became 
increasingly  puzzled  about  his  new 
assignment.  He  asked  for  details, 
and  got  nothing.  “No  one  here  is 
qualified  to  indoctrinate  you,”  he 
was  told.  “We  have  an  expert 
coming,  and  you’ll  go  back  with 
him.  He’ll  give  you  as  much  as  he 
can  in  space.  It  won’t  be  enough, 
and  you’ll  probably  get  killed,  but 
there’s  a crisis  . . .” 

Hilford  shrugged  patiently.  He 
lounged  about  with  hands  and 
head  swathed  in  bandages.  He 
could  hear  only  with  a communica- 
tor clapped  tightly  against  his 
head,  the  volume  turned  up  to  what 
should  have  been  an  ear-shattering 
level.  He  could  not  account  for  the 

6 


peculiar  feeling  in  his  hands.  Be- 
cause there  was  nothing  else  for 
him  to  do,  he  waited  and  said 
nothing,  and  eventually  the  day 
came  when  his  bandages  could  be 
removed. 

Hilford  sat  stiffly  on  the  edge  of 
his  bed,  hands  extended  in  front 
of  him.  A pretty  young  nurse  deft- 
ly peeled  the  bandages  from  his 
hands.  A second  nurse,  not  so 

pretty,  shot  curious  glances  at  him 
as  she  unrolled  yards  of  bandage 
from  his  head.  The  doctor  hovered 
nearby,  his  round  face  puckered 
anxiously.  Hilford  saw  his  lips 

move,  and  heard  nothing. 

He  had  confidently  assumed  that 
his  hearing  would  improve  as  the 
bandages  came  off.  It  did  not. 

Silence  enveloped  and  stifled  him. 
A pair  of  surgical  scissors  slipped 
from  nervous  fingers,  and  fell  with 
noiseless  impact.  The  doctor,  danc- 
ing about  apprehensively,  over- 
turned a chair,  and  Hilford’s  eyes 
followed  it  as  it  crashed  soundlessly. 
He  coughed,  and  let  the  word, 
“Damn!”  explode  from  his  lips. 

He  heard  neither. 

The  last  of  the  bandages  dropped 
away,  and  the  nurses  stepped  back. 
The  doctor  bounded  forward, 
gripped  Hilford’s  head  firmly,  and 
studied  it  critically.  Hilford  waited 
submissively,  felt  the  doctor’s  skill- 
ful fingers  prodding  his  head,  felt 
his  own  hands  caught  up  for  a 
rapid  examination. 

Suddenly  the  doctor  backed 
away,  grinning.  The  nurses  grinned. 
The  three  of  them  stood  together, 
lips  moving  excitedly,  hands  gestur- 
ing. Hilford  moved  his  hands,  as 
though  to  push  aside  the  void  of 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


silence  that  surrounded  him. 

His  hands.  Left  hand,  thumb  and 
five  fingers.  Right  hand,  thumb  and 
five  fingers.  He  examined  the  extra 
fingers  with  studious  bewilderment, 
tried  to  move  them,  and  gaped  at 
the  stiff  response. 

A nurse  thrust  a mirror  in  front 
of  him.  The  reflection  stared  back 
at  him — his  face,  but  not  his  face. 
“Damn!”  he  bellowed,  and  the 
word  dropped  into  nothingness. 
His  face  stretched  smooth  and  un- 
broken from  the  point  of  his  chin 
to  the  taut  dome  of  his  bald  head. 
His  ears  were  gone. 

Hilford  lurched  to  his  feet  and 
advanced  angrily.  The  doctor 
dropped  his  arms  and  stood  help- 
lessly before  him,  pink  face  wrinkled 
with  merriment.  The  nurses 
clutched  their  sides  as  laughter 
shook  their  trim  bodies.  Hilford 
watched  them,  strained  against 
the  noiseless  impact  of  their  laugh- 
ter, and  finally  slumped  dejectedly 
back  onto  his  bed. 

Ernst  Wilkes,  the  Sector  Chief 
of  Intelligence,  moved  his  bulky 
figure  into  the  room,  stood  for  a 
moment  regarding  Hilford,  and 
dismissed  the  doctor  and  nurses 
with  a gesture.  He  tossed  Hilford 
a communicator,  and  tested  a chair 
apprehensively  before  he  settled  his 
weight  upon  it. 

“Where  are  my  ears?”  Hilford 
demanded. 

Wilkes’  wheezy  voice  floated 
faintly,  far  away.  “Deep  freeze.  You 
can  have  them  back  when  you 
finish  this  assignment.  If  you  finish 
it.  If  you  want  them  back,  that 
is.  You’ll  be  two  pounds  lighter 
without  those  atmosphere  flaps, 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


and  you  might  find — I just  got  in. 
Sorry  I had  to  be  away  when  you 
reported  here.  Know  anything 
about  Kamm?” 

Hilford  started.  “The  silent 
planet.  So  that’s  why  I lost  my 
ears!” 

“Right.  Sense  of  hearing  is 
atrophied  in  all  life  forms.  They’ve 
even  lost  the  external  vestiges  of 
any  hearing  apparatus.” 

Hilford  searched  his  memory. 
“Kamm — never  been  in  that  sector. 
The  natives  have  some  kind  of  odd 
religious  cult,  haven’t  they?  Rep- 
tiles?” 

“Birds.  Wish  I could  tell  you 
about  it,  but  I can’t.  There  aren’t 
many  experts  on  Kamm,  and  we’ve 
just  lost  some  of  our  best  men. 
You’ll  get  as  much  as  there  is  time 
for  on  the  ship.  Zorrel  just  got  in, 
and  he’s  to  go  back  with  you.  He’s 
waiting  now.  Ready  to  leave?” 
“Ready  as  I’ll  ever  be.” 

Wilkes  grunted,  and  struggled  to 
his  feet.  “I’m  giving  you  six 
months  leave  when  you  finish  this. 
But  you’ll  probably  get  killed.” 

At  the  space  port,  Wilkes  intro- 
duced Hilford  to  Mark  Zorrel, 
who  was  young,  six-fingered,  and 
earless.  “He’s  in  charge  of  you 
until  you  reach  Kamm.  The  main 
problem  will  be  language,  and  he’ll 
see  that  you  get  that,  and  as  much 
else  as  there’s  time  for.  Once  you 
land,  you’re  in  full  charge.  Zorrel 
will  act  as  your  assistant.” 
Hilford  shook  the  communicator 
gently,  and  returned  it  to  his  head. 
“Give  me  that  again.  Who’s  in 
charge  of  what?” 

“Oh,  hell,”  Wilkes  said.  “We 

7 


have  a base  on  a Kamm  moon. 
You’ll  get  your  orders  there.  Get 
aboard,  now,  and — luck.”  He 
waddled  away. 

“Take  good  care  of  my  ears,” 
Hilford  called  after  him.  He 
turned  to  Zorrel.  “Let’s  get  on 
with  it.” 

Zorrel  shook  his  head,  and 
grinned.  He  spread  his  hands  in 
front  of  Hilford,  and  the  twelve 
fingers  flashed  bewilderingly.  Final- 
ly he  spoke,  in  the  harsh,  expression- 
less tones  of  an  unused  voice. 

“The  language  of  Kamm.  Gom- 
mimicators  are  much  too  uncer- 
tain, and  too  inconvenient,  if  those, 
doctors  did  any  job  at  all  on  your 
ears.  I’ll  tell  you  as  much  as  I can 
when  you’ve  learned  how  to  talk.” 

Hilford  followed  Zorrel  up  the 
ramp,  stiffly  and  doubtfully  ex- 
ercising his  two  newly-acquired 
fingers. 


They  landed  on  Kamm  at 
night,  in  a rolling  meadow 
near  the  sea,  and  dawn  found  them 
toiling  along  a rough,  winding 
coastal  road.  They  plodded  beside 
a clumsy  wooden  peddler’s  cart, 
drawn  by  a shaggy,  stupid,  ox-like 
animal  that  Hilford’s  mind  called 
an  ox  because  he  knew  no  verbal 
equivalent  for  the  Kammian  sign 
language.  They  wore  baggy  trou- 
sers and  short  capes,  so  startlingly 
colored  that  Hilford’s  hands  had 
been  too  paralyzed  to  comment  on 
them  when  he  first  saw  them.  They 
wore  the  squat,  scarlet  hats  ^at 
were  the  Kammian  badge  of  their 
profession. 

They  were  itinerant  peddlers, 


one  of  the  two  Kammian  classes — 
outside  of  the  nobility  and  the 
wealthiest  merchants — that  could 
travel  about  freely.  Seamen  made 
up  the  other  class,  but  an  intelli- 
gence agent  disguised  as  a seaman 
worked  under  a decided  handicap. 
He  was  bound  to  attract  attention 
if  he  got  very  far  inland. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light  enough 
to  see  each  other’s  hands,  they 
began  to  tdk.  “Damned  barbarous 
civilization,”  Hilford  signaled, 
“when  you  can’t  talk  in  the  dark.” 

He  found  this  sign  language  the 
worst  thing  he’d  encountered  in  all 
of  his  intelligence  service.  It  had 
grammar,  even  an  uncomfortably 
rigid  syntax.  Some  words — names, 
places,  important  artifacts — had  a 
single  sign  or  gesture.  Others  were 
literally  spelled  out.  Hilford  floun- 
dered at  every  turn  because  he  had 
to  keep  thinking  of  verbal  equiva- 
lents for  what  he  was  talking  about. 

And  what  should  he  call  this 
Province?  The  Flat  Province,  from 
the  Kammian  gesture;  but  it  was 
rolling  country,  and  even  moun- 
tainous farther  inland.  And  what 
should  he  call  its  ruler?  The  sign 
for  ruler  he  interpreted  as  “Duke”, 
and  the  erect  second  and  sixth 
fingers  on  the  right  hand  made  the 
ruler  of  the  Flat  Province  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers.  It  was  screwy,  but  it 
was  the  only  way  he  could  keep 
things  straight. 

Zorrel’s  young  face,  good-look- 
ing despite  its  lack  of  ears,  was 
frowning  critically.  His  hands 
moved  slowly,  with  a sarcastic 
flourish.  “You’re  still  talking  with 
one  hell  of  a foreign  accent.  Don’t 
bend  your  sixth  finger  like  that. 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


8 


It  puts  the  whole  thing  in  a kind 
of  familiar  tense,  and  that’s  a rank 
insult  when  you  talk  with  a 
stranger.” 

Hilford  straightened  the  offend- 
ing finger.  “I  was  wondering  if 
this  stuff  could  be  derived  from 
a spoken  language.” 

^rrel’s  hands  spoke  peevishly. 
“Scholars  have  been  arguing  about 
that  for  years.  Me,  I let  them 
argue.” 

Hilford  exercised  his  fingers 
thoughtfully.  The  idea  that  he 
could  be  tripped  up  on  such  a 
minor  matter  as  a bent  finger — 
that  any  Kammian  peasant  might 
spot  him  instantly  as  an  alien — 
was  highly  disturbing.  He  would 
have  to  let  Zorrel  run  things  for  a 
few  days,  until  he  became  wiser 
in  the  ways  of  Kamn.  He  would 
have  to  stay  in  the  background — 
and  keep  his  hands  shut. 

“Let’s  get  back  to  geography,” 
Zorrel’s  fingers  signaled.  “Show  me 
the  capital  cities  of  the  twelve 
provinces.  And  watch  that  accent.” 
They  talked  busily,  reviewing 
names  and  places. 

At  mid-morning  they  topped  a 
steep  hill  and  looked  down  on  the 
great  and  prosperous  city  of  00. 
It  was  market  day,  and  half  of  the 
ten  thousand  population  seemed  to 
be  thronging  the  market  place  that 
sprawled  along  the  harbor.  Zorrel’s 
remarks  changed  abruptly  to  the 
brisk  chatter  of  peddlers  as  they 
met  their  first  passers-by,  and  they 
moved  on  into  the  market  place. 

They  backed  their  cart  into  place 
at  the  end  of  a long  row  of  peddlers’ 
carts,  and  Zorrel,  with  a wink  and 
a shrug,  began  to  display  his  mer- 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


chandise  to  the  people  who  had  al- 
ready gathered  to  see  what  the  new 
cart  had  brought.  Hilford  stood 
nearby,  pushed  his  scarlet  peddler’s 
hat  farther  back  on  his  b^d  head, 
and  struggled  heroically  to  keep 
from  gaping  at  the  scene  spread  out 
before  him. 

He  was  surrounded  by  a riot  of 
color.  Bold,  iridescent  patterns  or- 
namented each  woman’s  billowing 
skirt  and  contrasted  with  the  rich, 
dark  tones  of  the  loose-fitting 
bodices.  The  men’s  clothing,  from 
the  baggy,  full-length  trousers  to  the 
short  capes,  was  a startling  maze 
of  lurid,  irregular  stripes  and 
jagged,  multicolored  lines.  Children 
followed  along  sedately,  amusing 
miniatures  of  their  parents. 

Each  man  wore  the  brightly- 
colored,  distinctive  headdress  of 
his  trade.  The  woman  of  00  wore 
no  hat,  but  her  long,  flowing  hair 
was  a bewildering  rainbow  stirring 
gently  in  the  tangy  sea  air.  Hilford 
reminded  himself  for  the  hundredth 
time  not  to  stare,  and  stared  again, 
wondering  if  the  women  dyed  each 
hair  individually. 

The  peddlers’  carts,  the  stalls, 
the  stubby,  rectangular  sails  that 
were  barely  visible  above  the  low- 
lying,  barge-like  ships  in  the  har- 
bor beyond  the  market  place,  the 
houses  and  shops  of  00  that  could 
be  seen  in  the  distance,  even  the 
cobblestones  underfoot — all  were 
a tumult  of  color,  some  loud  and 
gaudy,  some  exquisitely  patterned 
masterpieces  of  sensitive  shading 
and  contrast. 

The  faces  of  the  people  were 
solemn,  almost  sullen,  among  the 
gay  surroundings.  Hilford  watched 

9 


for  a long  time  before  he  grasped 
an  answer,  and  then  he  saw  the 
explanation  in  every  gesture,  in 
every  hesitant  purchase,  in  every 
pale  face.  These  people  were 
frightened.  Even  the  children  were 
frightened. 

Most  awesome  of  all  was  the 
silence.  Hilford  found  himself 
straining  to  hear  the  hum  of  the 
crowd,  the  shouts,  the  piercing 
cries  of  the  hawkers,  the  murmuring 
conversation — and  he  heard  noth- 
ing. Wooden  shoes  clapped  noise- 
lessly on  the  cobblestones.  Women 
and  peddlers  haggled  with  sound- 
less gestures.  Itinerant  musicians, 
such  a prominent  feature  of  market 
places  on  many  worlds,  were  not 
to  be  found.  Instead,  there  were 
shabby  performers  shaping  whirl- 
ing discs  of  color  into  exotic  pat- 
terns for  small  groups  of  towns- 
people who  watched  intently,  but 
did  not  applaud. 

Kamm,  the  silent  planet.  Silence 
hung  heavily  about  Hilford.  So 
fantastic  did  it  seem  as  he  watched 
the  slow-moving  crowds,  watched 
the  triangular-shaped  metal  coins 
fall  noiselessly  onto  the  hawkers’ 
trays,  watched  a battered  hand  cart 
being  wheeled  past  without  a single 
creak  or  rattle,  watched  insects 
buzzing  in  furious  silence  over  a 
soggy  pile  of  sea  mollusks,  that  he 
felt  compelled  to  cry  out  himself. 

But  he  knew  the  sound  would 
drop  from  his  lips  unheard. 

The  sight  of  a black  cape 
startled  Hilford  into  alertness. 
Soldier,  policeman — they  were  one 
and  the  same  on  Kamm,  and  their 
black  clothing  and  black,  fur- 

10 


trimmed  hats  made  them  stand  out 
sharply  among  the  brightly-ap- 
pareled populace.  This  Black-Cape 
walked  slowly  past,  whirled  sud- 
denly to  stare  curiously,  and  then 
stopped  a short  distance  away  with 
his  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  Hilford. 

“Well,  now,”  HilJFord  told  him- 
self. “A  peddler  on  market  day 
who  stands  around  gaping  and  does 
not  peddle  is  not  behaving  normal- 
ly, and  Blackie  spotted  that  with 
one  glance.  It  may  be  a primitive 
planet,  but  the  police  aren’t 
stupid!” 

He  glanced  at  Zorrel,  who  was 
working  with  enthusiasm  but  not 
much  success  to  sell  hand-carved 
figurines  of  the  hideous  Kanunian 
Holy  Bird  to  the  passers-by.  Hilford 
caught  Zorrel’s  eye,  winked,  and 
sauntered  out  to  lose  himself  in 
the  crowd.  He  carried  with  him 
Zorrel’s  warning  frown. 

“It  wouldn’t  do  for  me  to  try  to 
peddle,”  he  mused,  “but  there’s 
nothing  wrong  with  my  looking 
over  the  wares  of  my  competitors. 
All  the  peddlers  are  doing  that.” 

He  moved  with  the  crowd,  mak- 
ing an  enormous  circle  of  the 
market  place,  and  began  to  work 
in  towards  the  center.  The  sun 
was  high  overhead,  and  his  pangs 
of  hunger  prodded  him  into  action. 
He  stopped  to  buy  some  pastry, 
and  after  due  hesitation  also  had 
a mess  of  seaweed  measured  out 
for  him.  It  was  one  of  the  penalties 
of  his  profession.  To  masquerade 
as  a native,  he  had  to  eat — and  ap- 
parently enjoy — native  food.  Tuck- 
ing his  purchases  under  his  arm, 
he  walked  on  towards  the  center  of 
the  market  place,  where  the  fab- 

LLOYD  biggie;  JR. 


nlous  Karamian  Holy  Bird  floated 
life-like  at  the  top  of  a thirty-foot 
pillar. 

Metal  or  stone,  it  was — Hilford 
could  not  decide,  because  it  was 
painted  in  dazzling  colors.  It  was 
the  most  vicious  bird  of  prey  Hil- 
ford had  seen  on  any  of  his  two 
hundred  worlds.  Its  wings  spanned 
a good  ten  feet  from  tip  to  tip,  its 
eyes  gleamed  wickedly,  its  knife- 
like talons  were  poised  to  clutch 
and  tear,  and  the  huge,  tapering 
beak  was  drawn  back  to  strike. 

Hilford  stared  at  it,  and  shud- 
dered. According  to  legend,  he 
knew,  such  birds  were  once  the 
rulers  of  Kamm.  According  to  leg- 
end, they  still  existed  somewhere 
on  Kamm’s  single  continent.  But 
Space  Intelligence  agents  had  never 
seen  one,  nor  found  a citizen  of 
Kamm  who  had  seen  one.  The 
bird’s  heavy  shadow  seemed  sym- 
bolic, in  that  market  place  of  the 
Flat  Province,  where  the  citizens 
lived  in  mute,  brightly-colored  ter- 
ror. 

Glancing  back,  Hilford  saw  the 
Black-Gape  again,  this  time  moving 
towards  him  purposefully.  Hilford 
uneasily  threaded  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  and  tried  to  move  fast- 
er. “It’s  this  peddler’s  hat,”  he  told 
himself.  “They  could  spot  a ped- 
dler a mile  away.”  But  there  was 
compensation.  He  could  also  spot 
a Black-Gape  from  a good  distance. 
He  pushed  his  way  forward,  and 
when  he  looked  back  again  the 
Black-Gap>e  had  given  up  the  chase 
and  was  standing  respectfully  at 
attention.  At  the  same  time  the 
crowd  began  to  draw  back  in  alarm. 

A luxurious,  gaudy  carriage 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


moved  slowly  across  the  market 
place,  pulled  by  two  of  the  ox-like 
creatures.  Behind  it  staggered  a 
man  of  Kamm,  his  nude  body 
painted  gruesomely,  and  behind 
him  marched  ranks  of  the  black- 
caped  police,  solemnly  swinging 
their  sabers. 

Hilford  had  to  give  way  with 
the  crowd  and  humbly  avert  his 
eyes,  but  he  had  time  to  survey  the 
scene  before  him  and  mentally 
photograph  the  occupants  of  the 
carriage. 

One  was  the  notorious  Duke 
Two  Fingers,  who  lounged  in  re- 
splendent black  robes  and  kept  his 
bloated,  evil  face  staring  disdain- 
fully straight  ahead.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  other  occupant  brought 
Hilford  up  short  in  amazement  and 
forced  him  to  risk  another  glance 
at  the  carriage.  He  was  a huge, 
rough-looking  man  in  native  dress, 
but  he  had  one  physical  attribute 
which  stamped  him  unmistakably 
as  alien  to  the  planet  of  Kamm.  He 
had  ears. 

The  police  strapped  their  victim 
to  the  pillar,  and  their  ranks  filed 
past  him  in  orderly  manner,  each 
man  swinging  his  saber.  The  vic- 
tim writhed  in  soundless  agony  as 
blood  dripped  from  a multitude  of 
slashing  cuts  in  his  back.  The  Duke 
Two  Fingers  and  his  companion 
watched  impassively,  but  the  citi- 
zens began  to  edge  cautiously  away. 
The  market  place  thinned  out,  and 
Hilford  could  see  crowds  of  peo- 
ple moving  up  the  narrow  streets  of 
00,  towards  home. 

Hilford  moved  on,  and  another 
glance  over  his  shoulder  showed 
him  that  Black-Gape  was  following 

n 


him  again.  His  hands  seemed  to  be 
si^aling  somethin?.  Was  Hilford 
being  ordered  to  halt?  Other  Black- 
Gapes  were  closing  in  on  the  mar- 
ket place,  questioning  the  citizens, 
questioning  the  peddlers,  scowling 
suspiciously  at  everyone.  Hilford 
made  his  way  towards  the  far  side 
of  the  market  place,  along  the  har- 
bor, where  the  Black-Capes  seemed 
fewer. 

A Kammian  directly  ahead  of 
him  staggered  suddenly,  spun 
around,  and  clutched  his  arm,  pain 
mingling  with  astonishment  in  his 
face.  A dull  red  began  to  obliter- 
ate the  gay  colors  of  his  shirt  sleeve, 
and  a brightly  plumed  dart  pro- 
truded from  his  arm. 

With  reflexes  long  trained  to 
alertness,  Hilford  was  running  be- 
fore his  mind  had  completely 
grasped  what  was  happening.  A 
man’s  purple  hat  fell  to  the  ground 
in  front  of  him,  a dart  embedded 
in  it.  Hilford  ran  at  a crouch  to 
make  himself  a smaller  target,  and 
his  mind  thundered  angrily,  “The 
dogs!  Shoot  in  a crowded  market 
place  with  women  and  children 
about!” 

Darts  were  whizzing  past  from 
several  directions  when  he  reached 
the  last  line  of  peddlers’  carts.  The 
peddlers  gaped,  and  frantically 
dove  for  cover.  A dart  caught  m 
Hilford’s  cape  as  he  slipped  be- 
tween two  carts.  He  hurdled  a low 
stone  wall,  and  found  himself  on 
the  narrow  quay,  barren  except  for 
an  occasional,  weather-worn  stor- 
age shack.  It  was  a dead  end,  a 
natural  trap.  There  was  no  hiding 
place. 

Hilford  did  not  hesitate.  He 


ducked  into  the  sheltering  shadow 
of  a storage  shack,  crossed  the  quay 
in  three  leaping  strides,  dove  to  the 
deck  of  a ship,  and  crept  quickly 
behind  the  stubby  cabin. 

He  plucked  the  dart  from  his 
sleeve  and  tossed  it  overboard. 
From  the  lining  of  his  cape  he  pro- 
duced a green  seaman’s  hat.  The 
peddler’s  hat  was  quickly  concealed 
in  the  cape.  He  had  lost  the  sea- 
weed somewhere  along  the  way,  but 
he  still  clutched  the  pastry.  He  set- 
tled himself  on  a bench  in  the  stem 
of  the  ship,  a piece  of  pastry  in  each 
hand,  and  munched  calmly  as  he 
watched  the  choppy  waves  come 
rippling  across  the  bay  towards  him. 

The  ship  was  evidently  a fishing 
boat,  and  its  stench  was  overpow- 
ering. The  silence  was  nerve- 
wracking.  When  they  came — ^and 
he  was  certain  they  would  come — 
there  would  be  no  warning  foot- 
step, no  shouted  inquiry.  Should 
he  face  the  shore,  and  answer  ques- 
tions from  a distance?  He  gambled 
on  boldness — ^boldness,  and  confi- 
dent innocence,  and  indignation. 

He  was  leaning  back  with  one 
foot  on  the  low  wooden  railing, 
completely  relaxed,  when  rough 
hands  seized  him  and  jerked  him 
erect.  Hilford  reacted  instantane- 
ously, with  a rage  what  w^  not 
feigned.  He  whirled  and  charged 
into  Black-Cape,  shoving  him  back. 
Then,  apparently  recognizing  the 
costume  for  the  first  time,  he  halted 
and  stood  his  ground,  glowering. 

“Where  is  the  peddler?” 

Hilford  leered  insultingly,  and 
spoke  as  well  as  he  could  with  the 
pastry  clutched  in  his  hands.  “A 
sea-going  peddler?” 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


12 


Black-Cape  controlled  his  anger 
with  difficulty.  “Have  you  seen  a 
peddler?” 

“Over  there,”  Hilford  said,  ges- 
turing towards  the  market  place,  “I 
saw  a thousand.  Here  there  arc 
none.” 

Black-Gape  spun  around  and 
strode  towards  the  tiny  cabin.  He 
was  out  again  an  instant  later, 
hurrying  away  without  another 
glance  at  Hilford.  Hilford  returned 
to  his  bench,  leaned  back  restfully, 
and  munched  on  the  pastry.  He  was 
hungry. 

For  two  hours  Black-Capes 
prowled  the  quay.  Hilford  stole  un- 
easy glances  at  them.  What  had 
gone  wrong?  He  looked  like  a Kam- 
mian,  as  far  as  he  knew  he  acted 
like  a Kammian,  and  yet — one 
glance,  and  the  Black-Cape  had 
been  after  him.  It  boded  no  good 
for  his  mission. 

He  muttered  a fervent  prayer  of 
thanks  for  Zorrel.  The  extra  hat 
had  been  Zorrel’s  idea.  The  figurine 
of  the  Kammian  Holy  Bird  that 
Hilford  wore  around  his  neck  was 
also  Zorrel’s  idea.  Concealed  in  its 
gaping  beak  was  a miniature  stun- 
gun.  Clearly  Zorrel  was  a bright 
young  agent  who  could  take  care 
of  himself.  And  he  knew  Kamm. 

Black-Gapes  were  still  standing 
watchfully  at  intervals  along  the 
quay  when  Hilford  left  the  ship. 
He  did  not  want  to  risk  explain- 
ing his  presence  to  a returning  sea- 
man, and  he  wanted  to  reassure 
Zorrel  of  his  safety.  If  the  young 
agent  thought  Hilford  had  been 
t^en,  he  might  proceed  according 
to  some  plan  of  his  own,  and  they 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


would  become  separated. 

Hilford  avoided  the  Black-Capes, 
exchanged  the  traditional  crossed- 
thumb  greeting  with  a passing  sea- 
man, and  turned  into  the  market 
place  through  a break  in  the  stone 
wall.  He  moved  through  the  first 
row  of  peddlers’  carts,  glanced 
about  quickly,  and  whirled  to  in- 
terest himself  in  an  innocuous  pile 
of  ornamental  wooden  daggers. 

There  were  more  Black-Capes 
than  civilians  in  the  market  place, 
and  thirty  feet  from  Hilford  they 
swarmed  about  Zorrers  cart,  while 
Zorrel  himself  was  being  led  pro- 
testingly  away.  Stealing  sidewise 
glances,  Hilford  saw  the  Black- 
Gapes  kick  the  ox  into  position,  and 
get  the  cart  started  after  Zorrel. 
With  them,  concealed  in  the  cart, 
went  the  transmitter  that  was  Hil- 
ford’s  only  means  of  communica- 
tion with  the  Space  Intelligence 
Base  on  Kamm’s  largest  moon. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  plead- 
ing peddler,  and  walked  towards 
the  quay.  Ten  hours  after  his  ar- 
rival he  was  alone  and  helpless  on 
this  most  weird  of  all  weird  worlds. 
Staying  alive  was  a secondary  mat- 
ter. He  had  a mission,  and  he 
scarcely  knew  how  to  begin.  He  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  quay,  not 
twenty  feet  from  a stony-faced 
Black-Cape,  dangled  his  feet  over 
the  water,  and  searched  his  mind 
for  a plan  of  action. 

The  FEDERATION’S  prob- 
lem on  Kanun  was  a simple 
one — it  was  trapped  in  its  own 
ethics.  No  world  had  ever  been  co- 
erced into  joining  the  Federation, 

13 


or  even  into  trading  with  it.  When 
the  first  Federation  ships  landed  on 
Kamm,  they  were  greeted  coldly 
and  invited  to  leave.  They  left 
promptly. 

The  Federation  continued  to 
send  periodic  missions,  and  even- 
tually established  tenuous  trade  re- 
lationships. After  a hundred  and 
seventy-five  years,  the  relationships 
were  still  tenuous.  The  Federation 
landed  one  trading  ship  each 
month,  with  a small  assortment  of 
simple  luxury  goods  for  the  wealthy 
and  the  noble.  The  Federation  re- 
ceived in  return  an  assortment  of 
hand-manufactured  claptrap  that 
was  promptly  jettisoned  in  space. 
The  gesture  of  friendship  was  con- 
sidered worth  the  expense. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Federation 
pushed  well  beyond  Kamm,  and 
eventually  ran  headlong  into  the 
expanding  Haarvian  Empire.  Sud- 
denly it  found  itself  facing  a pow- 
erful enemy,  and  menaced  from 
within  its  boundaries  by  a strategi- 
cally located  hostile  and  independ- 
ent world.  If  the  Haarvian  Empire 
formed  an  alliance  with  Kamm,  the 
results  could  be  acutely  embar- 
rassing— perhaps  even  disastrous. 

Kamm  was  a primitive  world, 
militarily  weak,  and  the  obvious  so- 
lution was  a fast,  ruthless  conquest. 
But  the  very  structure  of  the  Fed- 
eration rested  upon  an  abhorrence 
of  force.  Time  might  have  resolved 
the  dilemma,  but  now  the  Federa- 
tion had  no  time. 

Six  months  before  Kamm  had 
committed  an  act  of  deliberate, 
brutal  violence.  A Federation  trad- 
ing commission,  making  a routine 
courtesy  call  upon  the  most  power- 


ful Kammian  nobleman,  had  failed 
to  return  to  its  ship.  The  following 
morning  the  members  of  the  com- 
mission were  found  in  the  streets  of 
00 — gruesomely  murdered. 

“Unfortunate,”  the  Duke  Two 
Fingers  had  said.  “The^  bandits 
will  ...” 

But  the  Federation  disregarded 
the  bandits.  The  murdered  men 
were  not  robbed,  and  their  deaths 
could  only  have  been  caused  by  an 
advanced  type  of  weapon  complete- 
ly unknown  to  the  Federation.  The 
five  members  of  the  commission 
had  died  simultaneously,  and  from 
the  same  cause — a severe  cranial 
hemorrhage,  with  profuse  bleeding 
from  the  nose,  mouth  and  ears. 
There  was  no  sign  of  external  in- 
jury. A painstaking  pathological 
examination  ruled  out  poison  or 
bacteria.  And  the  use  of  an  un- 
known weapon  pointed  directly  at 
the  Haarvian  Empire. 

The  Federation  established  a 
base  on  the  largest  Kammian  moon, 
for  Space  Intelligence  and  the 
654th  Fleet.  A detector  screen  was 
set  up  around  the  planet,  and  the 
fleet  began  to  make  an  alarming 
catch  of  Haarvian  reconnaissance 
ships.  Space  Intelligence  had  al- 
ways kept  a few  agents  on  Kamm, 
for  training  and  study  purposes. 
These  were  ordered  into  the  Flat 
Province,  and  they  promptly  disap- 
peared. Space  Intelligence  sent  in 
more  agents,  and  lost  them. 

Kamm’s  single  continent  was  di- 
vided into  twelve  provinces,  and  in 
theory  the  twelve  rulers  were 
equals.  In  fact,  one  duke  complete- 
ly dominated  the  others  through  his 
control  of  a planet-wide  police 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


14 


force.  His  power  evidently  derived 
from  the  religion  of  Kamm,  since 
he  held  the  title,  Keeper  of  the 
Bird,  and  the  pwlice — or  soldiers — 
of  the  Bird  swore  fealty  not  to  the 
man,  but  to  the  title. 

The  Keeper  of  the  Bird  was 
chosen,  Space  Intelligence  believed, 
in  some  kind  of  lottery.  He  held 
that  honor  for  a period  roughly  five 
years  long,  determined  by  the  com- 
plicated interaction  of  Kamm’s 
three  moons,  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  at  a place  and  time  shrouded 
in  secrecy,  the  dukes  met  to  choose 
a new  Keeper  of  the  Bird. 

The  constant  shifting  of  the  focal 
p>oint  of  p>ower  had  kept  peace  on 
Kamm  for  centuries,  and  preserved 
the  independence  of  the  twelve 
provinces.  In  all  of  Kamm’s  re- 
corded history  no  duke  had  ever 
served  two  consecutive  terms  as 
Keeper  of  the  Bird — until  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers  had  received  his  first 
fifteen  years  before.  He  was  now 
finishing  his  third  consecutive  term, 
and  the  opinion  advanced  by  Space 
Intelligence  was  a mere  phrasing  of 
the  obvious.  If  the  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  was  actually  chosen  by  lot,  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers  had  a system. 

Of  the  twelve  dukes,  only  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers  was  openly  hos- 
tile to  the  Federation.  It  was  he 
who  was  suspected  of  dealing  with 
the  Haarvian  Empire.  It  was  in  his 
Flat  Province  that  the  trade  com- 
missioners had  been  murdered  and 
the  best  agents  Space  Intelligence 
could  supply  were  inexplicably  dis- 
appearing. And  as  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  he  could  dominate  the  other 
dukes,  and  force  them  to  oppose 
the  Federation. 


This  was  the  basis  for  the  orders 
that  Space  Intelligence  handed  to 
Bran  Hilford.  Find  out  when  and 
where  the  dukes  meet  to  choose 
their  next  Keeper  of  the  Bird.  Find 
out  how  the  choice  is  made.  If  pos- 
sible, see  that  the  choice  does  not 
fall  to  the  Duke  Two  Fingers  for  a 
fourth  consecutive  time.  Above  all 
else,  track  down  the  secret  weapon 
that  the  Haarvian  Empire  has  given 
to  Kamm. 

“It’s  the  weapon  that  bothers  us,” 
scholarly-looking  Admiral  Lantz 
had  told  Hilford.  There  were  deep 
furrows  of  worry  in  his  face. 
“Kamm  couldn’t  trouble  us  with 
its  own  resources.  We  could  seal  it 
off,  and  let  the  diplomats  work 
things  out.  But  we  don’t  dare  wait. 
Haarn  may  have  given  that  weap>on 
to  Kamm  just  to  see  if  we  have  a 
defence  against  it.  If  we  don’t  come 
up  with  a solution — quickly — ^we’ll 
have  to  attack  Kamm.” 

“That  could  be  disastrous,”  Hil- 
ford said. 

“The  government  would  prob- 
ably fall,”  the  admiral  admitted. 
“And  it  would  label  the  Federation 
as  a militant  aggressor,  which  is 
something  we’ve  avoided  for  cen- 
turies. But  we  have  no  choice.  That 
weapon  must  work  on  an  electronic 
wave  principle,  and  its  range  might 
be  measured  in  light  years.  It  could 
wipe  out  the  entire  population  of  a 
planet.  It  could  kill  every  man  in 
an  entire  fleet  before  our  ships 
could  get  within  striking  distance. 
We  simply  do  not  dare  let  the 
Haarvians  see  that  we  fear  that 
weapon.  We  know  the  next  Keeper 
of  the  Bird  will  be  chosen  soon.  I’m 
giving  you  just  thirty  days.  If  you 


SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


15 


can’t  supply  us  with  the  answers 
we  want  in  that  time,  we’ll  have  to 
risk  an  attack,  and  hope  that  sur- 
prise will  outweigh  the  advantage 
of  that  weapon.” 

“I’ll  do  my  best,”  Hilford  said. 

“You  know  about  the  way  our 
agents  have  been  disappearing?” 

“Yes,”  Hilford  said.  “I  know 
about  that.” 

The  admiral  nodded,  and  said 
solenmly,  in  a tone  of  voice  that 
clearly  implied  that  he  never  ex- 
pected to  see  Hilford  again,  “Good 
luck.” 

Hilford  sat  watching  the  waves 
ripple  across  the  harbor,  and  won- 
dered what  had  gone  wrong.  In 
the  market  place,  the  Black-Gape 
had  taken  one  glance  at  him  and 
recognized  him  as  an  alien.  He 
was  certain  of  that.  But  then — on 
the  fishing  boat  he  had  been  taken 
for  a Kammian  seaman.  Certainly 
changing  his  hat  hadn’t  made  the 
difference. 

And  Zorrel — Zorrel  had  had  two 
years  of  experience  in  the  rural 
areas  of  Kamm,  and  he  was  a 
bright  young  agent.  And  he  had 
been  snapped  up  like  a novice  on 
his  first  day  in  00. 

Looking  up  suddenly,  Hilford 
saw  a ship  approaching,  clumsily 
tacking  across  the  broad  bay  to- 
wards the  quay.  He  watched  it  idly, 
thinking  to  pick  up  a few  seafaring 
points,  and  then  lost  interest.  When 
he  looked  again  the  ship  was  hover- 
ing fifteen  feet  from  the  quay,  and 
its  captain  stood  atop  the  low  cabin 
gesturing  at  him  wildly. 

“Look  away,  you  sniveling  dirt 
digger!  On  your  lazy  feet,  you  de- 

16 


praved  son  of  a sway-backed  ox! 
Look  away!” 

Startled,  Hilford  struggled  to  his 
feet.  A deck  hand  swung  deftly, 
and  a thick  rope  shot  at  Hilford. 
He  ducked  out  of  the  way,  stum- 
bled, and  fell  on  his  back  on  the 
muddy  cobblestones.  Momentarily 
stunned,  he  lay  there  with  the 
heavy  rope  across  his  chest.  Two 
passing  seamen  seized  the  rope  and 
hauled  lustily.  They  were  joined  by 
others,  and  the  ship  was  slowly 
drawn  towards  the  quay. 

Hilford  got  to  his  feet,  shook  his 
head  confusedly,  and  started  un- 
certainly to  walk  away.  The  ship’s 
captain  whirled  about,  took  a long 
leap  from  the  top  of  the  cabin  to 
the  quay,  seized  Hilford’s  shoulders, 
and  spun  him  around.  He  towered 
over  Hilford,  a huge,  brawny,  red- 
faced man,  and  his  hands  shook 
with  anger  as  he  flashed  them  un- 
der Hilford’s  nose. 

“Dirt  digger!  Sniveling  dirt  dig- 
ger! When  does  a seaman  refuse  to 
look  away?  Don’t  think  I won’t  re- 
port this.  I’ll  have  you  back  digging 
before  your  ship  sails.”  He  gave  Hil- 
ford a long,  hard  look.  “I’ve  never 
seen  you  before.  You’re  too  old  to 
be  an  apprentice.  Who  are  you, 
anyway?  Let’s  see  your  credentials.” 

Hilford  tried  to  be  indignant, 
and  managed  it  badly.  “Who  do 
you  think  you  are?” 

“Who  do  I think  I am?  Why, 
you  sniveling  dirt  digger.  I’ll  show 
you  . . .” 

His  hands  clamped  vice-like  on 
Hilford’s  throat.  Seamen  were 
gathering  around  them,  and  Hil- 
ford’s bleary  eyes  saw  a multitude 
of  Black-Capes  coming  on  the  run. 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


The  hands  relaxed  suddenly.  The 
captain  backed  away  and  stood 
with  his  hands  silent,  looking  al- 
most respectful.  A hand  gripped 
Hilford’s  arm  firmly,  turned  him 
around,  and  led  him  along  the 
quay.  He  glanced  at  the  man  be- 
side him,  expecting  to  see  the  omi- 
nous black  cape,  and  saw  instead 
a flash  of  color  and  the  high- 
peaked,  green  hat  of  a sea  captain. 
Ahead  of  them,  two  Black-Capes 
halted,  and  respectfully  kept  their 
distance. 

Hilford  meekly  allowed  himself 
to  be  led  to  the  far  end  of  the  quay, 
aboard  a large  ship,  and  into  the 
cabin.  The  captain  barred  the  door, 
pointed  at  a chair,  and  seated  him- 
self across  the  table.  He  poured  a 
sparkling  liquid  into  two  glasses, 
and  shoved  one  at  Hilford. 

His  hands  spoke  bluntly.  “I  am 
Captain  Fist.  Your  name?” 

He  was  a slim,  almost  fragile- 
looking  man,  small  for  a Kammian, 
but  Hilford  sensed  the  hardness  his 
slight  frame  concealed,  and  re- 
spected him.  His  bronze  face  was 
calm  and  confident,  his  dark  eyes 
alert  and  penetrating.  It  W2is,  Hil- 
ford thought,  an  honest  face.  This 
captain  was  intelligent,  rather  than 
cunning.  He  would  outmaneuver  a 
man,  but  he  would  not  deceive  him. 
He  was  obviously  someone  of  im- 
portance, and  he  had  saved  Hil- 
ford, there  on  the  quay — but  why? 
Hilford  raised  his  glass,  to  stall  for 
time. 

The  captain’s  fingers  moved 
slowly.  ‘T  understand  that  your  real 
name  would  have  no  meaning  on 
Kamm.  But  surely  the  Federation 
gave  you  a Kammian  name.  You 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


are  from  the  Federation,  aren’t 
you?” 

Hilford  choked,  sputtered  into 
his  glass,  and  dropp^  it.  It  shat- 
tered, and  the  liquor  collected  in  a 
shimmering  puddle  on  the  table 
top.  Captain  Fist  nonchalantly  pro- 
duced a rag,  cleaned  up  the  mess, 
and  sat  back  to  look  inquiringly  at 
Hilford. 

Hilford  made  his  comment  a 
weak  question.  “Federation?” 

The  captain  smiled.  “My  last 
trip  to  00.  That  will  be  sixty  days 
ago — sixty-five.  The  Mother  Moon 
was  full.”  He  paused  to  fill  another 
glass  for  Hilford.  “One  night  I 
found  a man  on  the  beach.  He 
wore  a peddler’s  hat,  and  there 
were  five  darts  in  his  body.  He  was 
dead.” 

“Describe  him,”  Hilford  said. 

“He  was  a small  man,  middle- 
aged.  His  hair  was  reddish,  like 
that  of  many  people  of  the  Round 
Province.  He  looked  like  a native 
of  Kamm.  His  hands  had  six  fin- 
gers. But  when  we  examined  his 
body,  seeking  to  identify  him,  we 
found  his  feet  had  only  five  toes.” 

Hilford  nodded  thoughtfully.  Six 
fingers,  six  toes.  Naturally.  Space 
Intelligence  had  been  careless 
there,  which  wasn’t  normal.  But 
then — the  Black-Gapes  didn’t  have 
X-ray  vision.  It  wasn’t  his  toes  that 
had  given  him  away. 

“Was  the  man  your  friend?”  the 
captain  asked. 

Hilford  made  a quick  decision 
that  was  no  decision  at  all.  He  had 
to  trust  this  man.  “No,”  he  an- 
swered. “But  I knew  of  him.” 

The  captain  gestured  his  under- 
standing. “The  following  night,  the 

17 


Black-Capes  were  chasing  another 
man,  outside  of  00,  along  the 
shore.  They  trapped  him  on  the 
beach,  and  he  was  wounded,  but 
he  ran  into  the  water  and  swam 
out  to  sea.  I went  with  two  of  my 
men  in  a small  boat,  and  we  found 
him — alive.  I took  1dm  to  the  home 
of  the  wife  I have  in  00,  and  I 
found  that  he,  too,  had  six  fingers 
on  each  hand,  but  only  five  toes  on 
each  foot.  He  trusted  me,  and  from 
him  I learned  of  the  Federation.” 

“The  Federation,”  Hilford  said, 
“has  been  in  contact  with  Kamm 
for  nearly  two  hundred  years. 
There  has  been  a trading  ship  each 
month  . . .” 

“I  learned  of  the  Federation 
from  the  peddler  I plucked  from 
the  sea.  The  great  dukes  do  not 
honor  the  people  of  Kamm  with 
dangerous  knowledge.  The  League 
has  long  attempted  to  learn  about 
the  ships  from  the  sky — without 
success,  until  I found  the  peddler.” 

“What  happened  to  the  ped- 
dler?” 

“I  left  him  in  00  with  my  wife. 
He  ignored  my  advice  and  went  to 
the  market  place.  He  never  re- 
turned.” 

“The  Federation  has  sent  many 
such  men  to  the  Flat  Province  in 
the  last  six  months.  All  have  disap- 
peared.” 

“Of  course,”  the  captain  said. 

Hilford  did  not  understand  his 
matter-of-fact  attitude.  “They  have 
been  good  men — ^men  as  accus- 
tomed to  live  on  strange  worlds  as 
you  are  accustomed  to  travel  the 
sea.  They  have  been  carefully 
trained  in  the  language  and  ways 
of  Kamm.  And  still  they  disap- 

18 


peared.  Why?” 

“I  guessed  who  you  were,”  the 
captain  said,  “because  you  wore 
the  seaman’s  hat  and  did  not  know 
the  ways  of  seamen.  Once  you  were 
inside  this  cabin  I was  certain.  If 
you  were  to  walk  over  to  the  mar- 
ket place,  the  first  Black-Cape  you 
passed  would  arrest  you.” 

“Why?” 

The  captain  poured  another 
drink  for  himself,  and  downed  it 
quickly.  He  looked  at  Hilford  in 
amusement,  but  his  hands  moved 
almost  apologetically.  “By  your 
smell,”  he  said. 

Hilford  sank  back,  and  struggled 
to  control  his  amazement.  Kamm, 
the  silent  planet.  Kamm,  where  the 
natives  had  lost  their  hearing,  and 
gained  in  its  place  super-sensitive 
senses  of  sight  and  smell.  Some  of 
the  manifestations  were  obvious — 
the  astonishing  use  of  color,  this 
captain  thinking  nothing  of  put- 
ting to  sea  in  the  dark  to  look  for 
a solitary  swimmer,  even — if  he 
hadn’t  been  such  a dunce  as  to 
overlook  it — the  incredible  number 
of  peddlers  in  the  market  place  who 
dealt  in  perfumes. 

Suddenly  he  understood  the  mir- 
acle of  his  escape.  Not  even  the 
Kammian  nose  could  cope  with 
the  odors  that  blended  along  the 
quay — fresh  and  decaying  fish,  a 
variety  of  imported  foodstuffs,  pun- 
gent stacks  of  drying  seaweed.  On 
the  fishing  boat,  the  Black-Cape’s 
sense  of  smell  had  been  completely 
frustrated,  and  he  was  reduced  to 
simply  looking  for  a peddler. 

And  the  sudden  disappearance  of 
the  other  Intelligence  Agents — once 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


they  invaded  the  market  place  of 
00,  it  would  only  be  a matter  of 
time  before  the  Black-Gapes  no- 
ticed the  distinctive  odor  of  the 
alien.  Perhaps  it  was  already  fa- 
miliar to  them,  from  the  men  of 
the  trading  missions.  And  once  they 
understood,  they  needed  only  to 
stroll  about,  sniffing  deeply.  The 
agents,  with  their  clumsy  olfactory 
equipment,  could  have  no  inkling 
of  how  they  were  betraying  them- 
selves. No  wonder  Space  Intelli- 
gence had  been  losing  agents! 

‘T  know,”  the  captain  signaled, 
“that  the  Federation  wants  nothing 
that  would  not  be  good  for  the  peo- 
ple of  Kamm.  I pledge  you  the  full 
support  of  the  League.” 

“The  League?” 

“The  Seamen’s  League,  of  which 
I am  also  captain.” 

“I’ll  need  your  assistance,”  Hil- 
ford  said. 

The  clasped  hands,  right  to  left 
and  left  to  right,  bending  their 
wrists  until  their  forearms  touched. 

“Now,”  the  captain  said,  “I’ll 
take  you  home.  You’ll  carry  a bas- 
ket of  overripe  fish,  just  in  case. 
You  must  not  be  careless,  like  the 
peddler  I plucked  from  the  sea.” 

HE  CAPTAIN  did  not  live  in 
00  proper,  but  in  a small  sea- 
men’s village  a short  distance  to  the 
east  of  the  metropolis,  along  the 
shore.  Hilford  carried  a basket  of 
fish,  which  were  fully  as  overripe  as 
the  captain  had  promised.  The 
captain’s  hands  spoke  busily  as 
they  walked,  and  Hilford  had  to 
strain  to  follow  them  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness. 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


“The  League,”  the  captain  said, 
“is  independent  of  any  duke.  The 
Duke  Two  Fingers  likes  us  no  bet- 
ter than  we  like  him.  Years  ago, 
when  he  was  first  chosen  Keeper 
of  the  Bird,  he  tried  to  rule  the 
League.  The  League  defied  him, 
and  he  arrested  all  the  seamen  who 
were  in  00.”  He  grinned,  his  white 
teeth  flashing  disdainfully.  “It 
lasted  for  sixty  days.  No  more 
ships  came  to  the  Flat  Province. 
The  duke  placed  his  Black-Gapes 
on  ships  of  the  League,  and  told 
them  to  be  seamen.  Most  of  them 
were  lost  in  the  first  storm.  In  the 
end,  the  duke  paid  the  League  for 
the  ships  and  for  the  affront  to  the 
seamen.  Since  then  he  has  not  mo- 
lested the  League,  and  though  we 
do  not  bow  down  to  him,  we  avoid 
giving  him  cause  for  anger.” 

Hilford  nodded. 

“You  must  not  move  your  head,” 
the  captain  said,  looking  at  him 
sharply.  “You  move  your  hand — 
so. 

Hilford  repeated  the  gesture,  and 
the  captain  grinned  approvingly. 
“We  will  make  a good  Kammian 
of  you.  The  Duke  Two  Fingers 
himself  will  not  be  able  to  tell  you 
from  a native  of  the  Flat  Province 
— as  long  as  you  carry  the  fish!” 

Hilford  did  not  find  it  amusing. 
He  knew  there  were  times  when  a 
basket  of  fish  could  be  a definite 
handicap  to  a Space  Intelligence 
Agent. 

In  the  captain’s  modest  but 
brightly-painted  house  Hilford 
joined  the  captain  and  his  wife  for 
their  evening  meal.  Kammian  eti- 
quette wisely  prohibited  conversa- 
tion when  the  hands  had  better 


19 


things  to  do,  and  they  ate  without 
exchanging  a word.  As  soon  as  they 
had  finished,  the  wife  cleared  the 
table  and  discreetly  vanished.  The 
captain  sat  staring  at  the  table,  ab- 
sently chewing  on  a piece  of  sea- 
weed. Hilford  was  suddenly  seized 
by  weariness.  He  had  been  under 
constant  activity  and  nervous  strain 
for  eighteen  hours.  He  shook  his 
head  resolutely,  and  straightened 
up.  He’d  had  a blazing  piece  of 
good  fortune,  but  he  had  actually 
accomplished  nothing. 

The  captain  looked  up  quickly, 
and  echo^  his  thought.  “There  is 
much  to  be  done.  Some  officers  of 
the  League  are  coming — those  that 
are  in  port.  They  will  be  here  soon.” 

“Their  help  will  be  welcome,” 
Hilford  said. 

The  captain  busied  himself  with 
the  arrangements.  He  brought  in 
chairs  until  the  small  room  was 
crowded.  On  the  arm  of  each  chair 
he  hung  an  oil  lamp  and  lit  it.  The 
light  was  focused  through  a slot  to 
fall  across  the  hands  of  the  person 
occupying  the  chair — a Kammian 
device  to  aid  night  conversation. 

Hilford’s  mind  began  to  shape 
plans.  The  cart  was  the  most  im- 
portant thing.  He  must  find  the 
cart,  and  repossess  the  transmitter. 
He  could  then  let  Base  know  he  was 
still  operating,  and  ask  for  a post- 
ponement of  the  deadline.  With  the 
help  of  the  League,  he  should  even- 
tually be  successful — if  only  he 
could  have  time  . . . 

He  awakened  suddenly,  catching 
himself  as  his  body  pitched  for- 
ward. The  room  was  full  of  men, 
all  sitting  calmly  at  attention,  all 
waiting  patiently  for  him  to  awake. 


He  experienced  a momentary  con- 
sternation at  having  fallen  asleep. 
He  turned  apologetically  to  his 
host,  and  the  captain  began  his 
introduction  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

“Our  guest  is  of  the  men  who 
send  the  ships  from  the  sky.  They 
call  themselves  the  Federation.  We 
discussed  this  at  our  last  meeting. 
This  man  is  here  to  help  the  peo- 
ple of  Kamm.  The  League  will  give 
him  every  assistance  within  its 
power,  and  all  of  us  will  guard  his 
presence  here  with  our  lives.” 

All  eyes  were  on  Hilford.  “There 
was  a peddler,”  he  said  slowly, 
“who  was  taken  in  the  market  place 
today  by  the  Black-Capes.  He  was 
my  assistant.  I must  know  what  has 
been  done  with  him.  I must  know 
what  has  been  done  with  his  cart.” 

“We  will  learn  what  we  can,”  the 
captain  replied. 

“The  cart  is  important.  I must 
have  the  cart.” 

The  captain  glanced  about  the 
room,  and  his  hands  formed  a 
Kammian  name.  A young  man  at 
the  rear  stood  up  and  extinguished 
his  lamp.  “I  understand,”  he  sig- 
naled, and  turned  and  went  out. 

“I  saw  a man  in  the  duke’s  car- 
riage today,”  Hilford  said.  “He  was 
not  of  this  planet.” 

“The  man  with  the  holes  in  his 
head,”  the  captain  said.  “Evil  meets 
with  evil  in  the  duke’s  carriage.” 

“Do  you  know  where  he  comes 
from?” 

The  circle  of  hands  remained 
motionless.  “Two  such  men  have 
been  seen  with  the  duke,”  the  cap- 
tain said  finally.  “We  know  no 
more  than  that.” 


20 


LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


“Six  months  ago,”  Hilford  said, 
“men  of  the  Federation  called  on 
the  Duke  Two  Fingers.  Their  call 
was  a gesture  of  friendship,  which 
is  made  each  year.  The  next  morn- 
ing the  men  were  found  in  the 
streets  of  00,  murdered.” 

“It  is  the  duke’s  way  of  doing 
things,”  the  captain  said  simply. 

“Anything  I could  learn  of  this 
crime  would  be  of  value.” 

He  followed  the  captain’s  gaze  as 
it  swept  quickly  about  the  room.  No 
hand  moved.  The  captain’s  fingers 
shaped  another  name,  and  a sea- 
man extinguished  his  lamp  and 
went  out.  Attention  returned  to 
Hilford. 

“There  are  matters  which  I must 
attend  to  in  person,”  Hilford  said. 
“What  can  be  done  to  make  me 
smell  like  a Kammian?  I cannot 
carry  fish  everywhere  I go.”  There 
was  no  reply.  “Would  it  be  fitting 
for  me  to  use  a perfume  that  would 
hide  the  odor?” 

Smiles  flickered  on  the  seamen’s 
faces.  “A  male  does  not  use  per- 
fume,” the  captain  said  bluntly. 
“And  yet — there  is  a perfume  mak- 
er in  00.  He  is  a good  man.  He 
might  make  you  a perfume  that 
would  cancel  your  odor,  and  no 
more.  Perhaps  tomorrow  . . 

“Why  not  tonight?” 

“It  would  be  dangerous  for  the 
perfume  maker.  We  seamen  can 
frequent  the  drinking  places  at 
night  and  wander  about  undis- 
turbed. That  is  expected  of  seamen. 
But  the  citizens  of  00  must  be  in 
their  homes  two  hours  after  sun- 
down. It  can  mean  death  if  the 
Black-Gapes  find  them  on  the 
streets.” 


“Then  let  your  perfume  maker 
be  a seaman,”  Hilford  said. 

Puzzled  faces  stared  at  Hilford, 
and  there  was  the  confused  move- 
ment of  shifting  feet  and  fingered 
protests.  “I  do  not  understand,”  the 
captain  said.  “He  is  a perfume 
maker  . . .” 

Hilford  fumbled  in  the  lining  of 
his  cape,  and  donned  his  scarlet 
peddler’s  hat.  “Look — I’m  a ped- 
dler.” 

The  captain’s  face  wore  a star- 
tled expression.  “Of  course!”  He 
dispatched  a young  seaman,  with 
an  extra  seaman’s  hat  concealed 
under  his  cape. 

“When  is  the  next  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  to  be  chosen?”  Hilford  asked. 

“Only  the  dukes  know.” 

“Where  is  the  choice  made?” 

“Somewhere  in  the  mountains,  it 
is  said.  Only  the  dukes  know.  And 
perhaps  the  most  trusted  Black- 
Capes.” 

“Do  all  the  dukes  attend?” 

“Yes.  The  southern  dukes  jour- 
ney by  sea  to  00,  and  the  northern 
dukes  journey  by  sea  to  the  Tri- 
angular Province.  Where  they  meet, 
only  the  dukes  know.” 

Hilford  did  a quick  review  of  his 
geography.  The  mountain  range 
ran  along  the  center  of  Kamm’s 
long,  narrow  continent.  So  the 
dukes  would  travel  the  northern  or 
southern  seas  to  the  center  of  the 
continent  and  journey  inland,  to 
meet  in  the  mountains.  It  would 
not  be  difficult  for  them  to  keep 
their  meeting  place  a secret.  Kam- 
mian commerce  moved  by  sea. 
Roads  were  few  in  the  interior,  and 
probably  few  people  ever  ventured 
to  cross  the  mountains. 


SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


21 


Hilford  felt  encouraged.  This 
was  more  than  Space  Intelligence 
had  learned  in  the  previous  two 
centuries.  “Here  is  our  objective,” 
he  said.  “The  liberation  of  the  peo- 
ple of  Kamm  must  proceed  slowly. 
We  wish  to  avoid  violence.  The  first 
step  must  be  to  secure  the  appoint- 
ment of  another  duke  as  Keeper  of 
the 

The  captain  gestured  sadly. 
“That  is  impossible.” 

“We  of  the  Federation  often  find 
ourselves  called  upon  to  do  the 
impossible.” 

“That  is  impossible,”  the  captain 
said  again.  “The  duke’s  younger 
brother  is  High  Priest  of  the  Bird.” 
Hilford’s  response  was  unneces- 
sarily and  futilely  vocal.  “Ah!”  he 
exclaimed.  So  that  was  the  basis  for 
the  duke’s  system  in  the  lottery. 

One  seaman  leaned  forward.  It 
was  the  brawny,  red-faced  captain 
who  had  nearly  throttled  Hilford 
that  afternoon.  “I  sail  tomorrow 
for  the  Round  Province,”  he  said. 
“When  I return,  I bring  the  Duke 
One  Thumb  to  00.” 

“He  comes  to  take  part  in  the 
choice  of  a new  Keeper  of  the 
Birdr 

“The  Duke  One  Thumb  does  not 
visit  the  Flat  Province  out  of  love 
for  its  duke.” 

“Is  the  Duke  One  Thumb  a 
friend  of  the  League?” 

“Not  openly.  But  seamen  feel 
welcome  in  the  Round  Province.” 
“Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to 
talk  with  the  Duke  One  Thumb?” 
“It  might  be  arranged.” 

The  door  swung  open,  and  the 
perfume  maker  entered — a tall, 
gangling  man  who  looked  ludicrous 


in  a seaman’s  hat  much  too  large 
for  him.  He  carried  a heavy  box, 
and  the  situation  had  evidently 
been  explained  to  him.  He  looked 
about  the  room,  sniffed,  made  his 
way  directly  to  Hilford,  sniffed 
again,  and  grimaced  distastefully. 
His  long  face  had  an  almost  com- 
ically mournful  expression. 

He  set  down  the  box,  and  his 
delicate  fingers  moved  concisely, 
gracefully.  He  would  have,  Hil- 
ford thought,  a beautiful  Kammian 
accent.  “It  may  be  difficult,”  he 
said,  “but  I shall  work  at  it.” 
“Work  in  the  next  room,”  the 
captain  said. 

The  door  swung  open  and  a 
seaman  charged  in,  fingers  moving 
frantically.  “Black-Capes  coming!” 
The  captain  pushed  Hilford’s 
chair  aside,  knelt  with  a knife  in 
his  hand,  and  pried  up  a small 
square  of  flooring.  He  signaled  to 
Hilford.  “Quickly!” 

Hilford  lowered  himself  down. 
The  space  under  the  floor  was 
shallow,  and  he  stood  with  his  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  floor  of  the 
room.  “The  perfume  maker?”  he 
asked. 

“Quickly!” 

He  ducked  under,  and  the  trap 
closed  over  him.  The  darkness  was 
absolute — not  so  much  as  a crack 
of  light  entered  around  the  trap. 
He  edged  forward  until  his  fingers 
touched  damp  earth.  He  found 
himself  in  a scoop>ed-out  area  per- 
haps three  strides  square.  In  one 
corner  there  was  a box,  and  he  sat 
down.  The  waiting  began. 

On  a normal  planet  he  would 
have  heard  the  police  making  a 
noisy  entry,  heard  their  bullying 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


22 


questions,  and  had  some  idea  of 
how  things  were  going.  On  Kamm 
he  heard  nothing — and  when  the 
trap  opened,  he  would  not  know 
if  it  meant  safety  or  capture. 

But  he  was  a veteran  intelligence 
agent,  and  he  did  not  waste  energy 
in  worrying  about  a situation  that 
he  could  not  control.  He  relaxed 
in  the  darkness,  leaned  back  against 
the  damp  wall  of  his  hiding  place, 
and  dozed  off. 

Light  was  falling  dimly  through 
the  opened  trap  when  he  awoke, 
and  the  captain  was  shaking  him. 
They  climbed  out,  closed  the  trap, 
and  took  their  seats.  The  seamen 
faced  him  calmly,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

“All  that  trouble  for  nothing?” 
Hilford  asked. 

Captain  Fist  looked  gloomy.  “I 
do  not  like  this.  Not  for  years  have 
there  been  so  many  Black-Gapes  in 
our  village.  They  inquired  after  the 
seaman  I brought  home  with  me.” 
“That  means  . . .” 

“It  means  a seaman,  or  a mem- 
ber of  his  family,  is  in  the  pay  of 
the  Black-Capes.  We  must  proceed 
cautiously.  By  tomorrow  they  will 
have  compared  reports  with  the 
Black-Capes  that  were  on  the  quay 
today.  They  will  want  to  know 
what  I did  with  the  seaman  who 
behaved  so  awkwardly.” 

“What  did  you  tell  them  about 
the  seaman  you  brought  home?” 
“I  brought  no  seaman  home,” 
the  captain  said.  “I  brought  the 
perfume  maker.  Of  course  in  the 
dusk  some  fool  may  have  mistaken 
the  color  of  his  hat.”  He  smiled 
slyly.  “The  perfume  maker  is  con- 
ferring with  the  League  about  some 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


perfume  which  he  wishes  to  ex- 
port. He  will  be  my  guest  until 
morning.  And  early  tomorrow  the 
awkward  seaman  will  ship  on  a 
boat  bound  for  the  Round  Province. 
He  will  be  seen  going  aboard  by  a 
Black-Gape  who  will  recognize  him 
— ^we  shall  see  to  that.  And  I have 
already  sent  out  a small  boat  to 
meet  him  down  the  coast  and  bring 
him  back  after  dark  tomorrow.  We 
should  hear  no  more  of  the  mat- 
ter.” 

“It  is  well  arranged,”  Hilford 
said. 

The  perfume  maker  came  in 
from  the  next  room,  and  dabbed 
Hilford  in  unlikely  places  with  a 
pungent,  colorless  liquid.  The  as- 
sembled seamen  sniffed  carefully, 
and  Captain  Fist  delivered  the 
verdict. 

“No,”  he  said.  “You  have 
blended  one  evil  scent  with  another. 
It  hides  nothing.”  He  turned  quick- 
ly to  Hilford.  “Apologies,  but  . . .” 

“Quite  all  right,”  Hilford  said. 

The  perfume  maker  turned  away 
sadly.  “It  is  difficult,”  his  graceful 
fingers  signaled.  “But  I shall  work 
at  it.” 

Hilford  briefed  the  seamen  care- 
fully on  the  Federation  point-of- 
view,  and  found  them  vaguely  dis- 
appointed. They  had  expected,  per- 
haps, armed  assistance  against  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers,  and  they  had  to 
resign  themselves  to  a more  subtle 
kind  of  revolution.  Four  times  the 
perfume  maker  tiptoed  in  to  test  a 
new  concoction,  and  registered  four 
more  failures.  The  meeting  lasted 
until  dawn,  and  Hilford  was  given 
a hearty  breakfast  and  sent  on  his 
way. 

23 


He  walked  to  the  quay  closely 
surrounded  by  a dozen  seamen. 
Several  carried  baskets  that  were 
awesomely  tainted  with  the  odor 
of  the  previous  day’s  fish.  The 
brawny  captain  left  Hilford  stand- 
ing on  board  his  ship  in  full  view 
of  the  passers-by,  and  walked  away. 
He  returned  a few  minutes  later,  in 
jocular  conversation  with  a Black- 
Cape.  The  Black-Cape  went  his 
way,  laughing  heartily. 

‘T  asked  him,”  the  captain  told 
Hilford,  “if  he  remembered  the 
spectacle  you  made  of  yourself  yes- 
terday. He  did.  I told  him  that  you 
men  from  the  north  are  all  igno- 
ramuses, but  by  the  time  I got  you 
back  from  the  Round  Province 
you’d  either  be  dead,  or  a seaman. 
It  won’t  surprise  me  if  you  jump 
ship  before  the  return  trip.”  He 
landed  a hearty  slap  on  Hilford’s 
back  and  nearly  sent  him  over  the 
railing. 

Well  down  the  coast  and  out  of 
sight  of  land,  Hilford  transferred  to 
a small  fishing  boat.  The  boat  re- 
turned after  dark,  and  landed  him 
near  the  seamen’s  village.  Captain 
Fist  met  him  on  the  beach,  and  led 
him  to  a nearby  shack. 

“The  Black-Capes  have  been  to 
the  village  twice  today,”  he  said.  “I 
don’t  like  it.  I’m  afraid  this  place  is 
not  safe  for  you.  I’ve  arranged  for 
you  to  stay  in  00.” 

“I  place  full  trust  in  your  judg- 
ment,” Hilford  said. 

“The  second  time  they  came 
they  discovered  the  trap  in  the  floor. 
Nothing  there,  of  course,  but  it 
definitely  means  that  I have  a 
traitor  in  the  League.  I went  pCT- 
sonally  to  complain  to  the  Captain 


of  the  Black-Capes.  He  gave  me 
profound  apologies.  These  are  un- 
settled times,  he  said,  and  the  police 
take  no  action  that  is  not  neces- 
sary. I told  him  that  if  the  seamen 
are  molested  further  I’ll  move 
League  Headquarters  to  another 
province  and  keep  the  seamen  out 
of  00  until  the  times  are  less  unset- 
tled. They’re  suspicious  about  some- 
thing, and  they  don’t  know  quite 
what  it  is.” 

“Did  you  learn  anything  about 
my  friend,  the  peddler?” 

“Nothing.  We  continue  to  try. 
But  I’m  afraid  you  will  not  see  him 
again.  He  has  probably  been  taken 
away.” 

“Away?  Where?” 

“To  the  mountains.  No  prisoners 
return  from  the  mountains.” 

“What  happens  to  them?” 

“The  Duke  Two  Fingers  is  reviv- 
ing the  old  ways.  No  one  knows  for 
certain,  but  we  guess.  In  the  past,  a 
bloodthirsty  duke  used  animals. 
The  Duke  Two  Fingers  uses  men.” 
Hilford  was  staggered.  Human 
sacrifice? 

Captain  Fist’s  eyes  blazed.  “I 
have  revered  the  Holy  Bird  all  my 
life,  as  a man  of  Kamm  should.  But 
holiness  that  demands  the  life  of  a 
man  is  not  holiness.  It  is  evil.  Now 
— ^we  go  to  00.” 


Hilford  was  installed  in  an 
inn,  next  door  to  his  friend  the 
perfume  maker.  His  quarters  were 
a secret  room  on  the  third — and 
top — floor.  Its  dimensions  were 
seven  feet  by  five  feet,  and  he  re- 
measured it  a dozen  times  the  first 
day.  He  entered,  a panel  closed  be- 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


24 


hind  him,  and  he  was  both  hidden 
and  trapped. 

Captain  Fist  dutifully  visited  him 
once  each  day,  and  twice  he 
brought  news.  A witness  had  seen 
the  duke’s  Black-Capes  dumping 
the  bodies  of  the  murdered  trade 
commissioners  from  carts  in  the 
dingy  alley  where  they  were  found 
the  next  morning.  A group  of  pris- 
oners had  been  seen  leaving  for  the 
mountains.  Zorrel  was  probably 
among  them — if  he  was  not  already 
dead. 

The  days  passed.  Once  the 
Black-Capes  raided  the  inn.  They 
found  nothing,  but  Hilford’s  un- 
easiness was  heightened,  and  the 
captain  did  not  disguise  his  worry 
about  the  traitor  in  his  organiza- 
tion. 

“It  is  not  one  of  my  officers,”  he 
said.  “He  suspects  that  I meet  you 
here  at  the  inn,  but  he  does  not 
know  of  the  secret  room.  When  I 
find  him  I shall  feed  him  to  the 
fish.” 

The  perfume  maker  regularly 
sent  over  new  mixtures  for  Hilford 
to  try.  And  each  time  a seaman 
would  take  one  studious  sniff  and 
inform  Hilford  that  he  still  smelled 
obnoxious. 

The  days  passed,  and  on  the  fifth 
day  in  the  inn  Hilford  decided  that 
he  could  wait  no  longer.  He  brought 
up  the  subject  of  Zorrel’s  cart.  The 
captain  had  discovered  nothing. 
There  was  no  indication  that  the 
duke’s  agents  had  disposed  of  it, 
so  it  was  assumed  that  the  duke 
had  converted  it  to  his  own  use. 

“I  must  find  that  cart,”  Hilford 
said.  “It  will  take  me  two  minutes 
to  remove  the  hidden  equipment, 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


and  I must  have  it.” 

That  evening  there  was  a crowd- 
ed meeting  in  Hilford’s  secret 
chamber,  and  an  expedition  was 
organized.  The  duke’s  carts  and 
wagons  were  parked  in  a meadow 
near  his  walled  estate.  There  were 
two  sentries  who  circled  the  area, 
keeping  its  perimeter  constantly  in 
view.  The  sentries  were  more  a 
matter  of  form  than  necessity.  No 
resident  of  00  would  steal  from 
the  Duke  Two  Fingers. 

“I  will  deal  wiffi  the  sentries,” 
Hilford  said.  “I  need  only  to  get 
within  fifteen  paces  of  them.” 

“No  Black-Cape  sentry  would 
allow  a seaman  to  get  that  close,” 
the  captain  said.  “You’d  have  three 
darts  in  you  before  you  got  within 
twenty  paces.” 

“I  won’t  be  a seaman,”  Hilford 
said,  a bit  jauntily.  “I’ll  be  another 
Black-Gape.” 

The  seamen  gazed  at  him  in 
open-mouthed  admiration.  Clearly, 
these  men  from  the  Federation 
were  brilliant  fellows. 

Hilford  felt  that  the  captain’s 
plans  were  overly  elaborate,  but 
his  protests  were  silenced.  The  ex- 
pedition set  out  the  following  night, 
as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  wearing  black 
capes  and  hats  borrowed  from  the 
duke’s  official  tailor.  Other  seamen 
were  stationed  at  intervals  from 
the  wood  near  the  duke’s  estate  to 
the  market  place  on  the  other  side 
of  00.  And  in  the  market  place  sea- 
men were  ready  to  start  a roaring 
fire  if  a diversion  was  necessary.  A 
fire  in  00  was  a serious  matter,  and 
would  take  priority  over  any  cart 
theft. 


25 


Hilford  moved  out  of  the 
shadows  of  the  wood  and  strode 
towards  the  sentry,  giving  him  the 
stiff-armed  Black-Cape  salute.  At 
ten  paces  he  triggered  a focused 
beam  from  his  stun-gun,  and  the 
sentry  folded  up  into  a paralyzed 
heap.  He  was  dragged  into  the 
shadows,  and  a black-caped  seaman 
took  his  place.  The  other  sentry  was 
quickly  dealt  with.  Black-caped  sea- 
men stationed  themselves  at  inter- 
vals among  the  carts,  and  one 
accompanied  Hilford — not  to  assist 
him,  but  to  keep  watch  and  let 
him  know  if  trouble  came.  There 
were  no  shouts  of  warning  on 
Kamm. 

Hilford  turned  his  attention  to 
the  carts,  and  was  startled  by  the 
number  of  them — dozens,  lined  up 
in  precise  rows.  Did  the  Duke  Two 
Fingers  have  some  passion  for  col- 
lecting ox  carts?  But  no — these 
would  be  intended  as  military  trans- 
port. The  duke  was  planning  the 
conquest  of  Kamm! 

He  moved  quickly  from  cart  to 
cart.  Some  he  could  dismiss  with 
a glance,  but  many  were  the  same 
type  as  Zorrel’s  cart,  and  he  had  to 
probe  the  interior  for  the  concealed 
panel  that  hid  the  transmitter. 

He  moved  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  his  escort  lurked  behind  him 
and  signaled,  “Haste!”  every  time 
Hilford  looked  at  him.  They 
reached  the  end  of  the  first  long 
row  and  started  on  the  second,  and 
suddenly  the  escort  gripped  Hil- 
ford’s  arm.  They  ran  together, 
dodging  among  the  carts,  and  in 
the  soft  light  of  Kamm’s  three 
moons  Hilford  saw  waves  of  Black- 
Capes  racing  down  on  them  from 

26 


all  directions.  As  he  ran,  he  cursed 
himself  for  allowing  such  elaborate 
preparations.  Too  many  seamen 
had  known  of  the  raid,  and  the 
League’s  traitor  had  struck  again. 

Hilford  wielded  his  stun-gun  at 
medium  power,  and  bowled  over 
ranks  of  Black-Capes.  They  darted 
through  the  break  in  the  encircling 
lines,  and  raced  for  the  woods.  In 
the  dim  light  Hilford  could  not 
tell  friend  from  foe,  but  evidently 
the  seaman  could.  He  directed  Hil- 
ford’s  attention  to  shadows  leaping 
towards  them,  and  turned  him 
away  from  others.  Hilford  sprayed 
at  long  range  with  his  stun-gun.  He 
could  do  no  more  than  momentari- 
ly daze  the  pursuers,  but  seconds 
were  what  they  needed. 

The  black-caped  seamen  passed 
them,  running  for  the  woods,  and 
Hilford  held  his  ground  to  fight  a 
delaying  action.  “Two  missing,” 
his  escort  signaled.  “Can’t  wait.” 
Darts  were  flashing  past  them.  Hil- 
ford pointed  the  stun-gun  as  he 
ran,  and  sprayed  again  at  long 
range.  A dart  stabbed  into  his  arm, 
and  he  scarcely  felt  it.  In  the  direc- 
tion of  00  flames  were  leaping  high 
into  the  air,  and  the  pursuing 
Black-Capes  seemed  not  to  notice 
them.  Hilford  wondered  if  the 
diversion  was  coming  too  late. 

They  had  just  reached  the  edge 
of  the  trees  when  a dart  struck 
Hilford  squarely  in  the  back.  He 
stumbled,  crashed  headlong  into  a 
tree,  and  lost  consciousness. 

He  came  to,  and  opened  his  eyes 
to  see  a Black-Cape  bending  over 
him.  He  closed  his  eyes  quickly, 
and  weakly  raised  his  hand  to  his 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


throat.  They  had  not  taken  the  Holy 
Bird.  He  still  had  his  stun-gun, 
which  meant  he  had  a chance  to 
escape.  But  he  felt  horribly  weak. 
He  would  need  strength. 

He  opened  his  eyes  again,  and 
saw  the  Black-Gape  grinning  at 
him.  It  was  his  seaman  escort.  He 
lay  on  the  narrow  cot  in  his 
cramped  secret  room. 

“We  carried  you,”  the  seaman 
signaled.  “The  Black-Capes  left  us 
for  the  fire.” 

Hilford’s  fingers  moved  feebly. 
“Your  captain  is  a wise  man.” 

“The  captain  has  been  arrested,” 
the  seaman  said.  “So  have  the 
other  officers — all  the  Black-Gapes 
could  find.  You’ve  been  unconscious 
for  six  hours.” 

“What  happens  now?” 

“We  have  given  the  duke  one 
day  to  release  the  seamen.  If  he 
does  not,  we  will  leave  00,  and  no 
more  ships  will  come  to  the  Flat 
Province.” 

“The  duke  will  not  care,  now,” 
Hilford  said.  “He  has  traitors 
among  the  seamen,  and  they  will 
train  men  to  sail  the  duke’s  ships. 
The  duke  will  need  his  own  ships 
to  conquer  Kamm,  because  he 
knows  the  men  of  the  League  would 
not  help  him.” 

“Men  do  not  lesu'n  in  a day  to 
sail  the  seas  of  Kamm.” 

“The  duke  has  plenty  of  time. 
Or  he  thinks  he  has,  if  he  is  chosen 
again  to  be  the  Keeper  of  the 
Bird/’ 

The  seaman  looked  worried.  Hil- 
ford was  frantic  with  worry.  It 
would  be  morning,  now,  and  he  had 
just  twenty- two  days  before  the 
Federation  would  strike.  He  did  not 


dare  tell  that  to  the  seamen.  If  a 
traitor  took  word  of  the  attack  to 
the  duke,  the  Haarns  would  know, 
and  what  was  planned  as  a quick 
conquest  would  turn  into  bloody, 
all-out  war. 

He  gave  way  to  his  weakness, 
and  slept. 

When  he  awoke  Captain  Fist 
was  there,  with  a doctor.  There  was 
grim  sympathy  in  the  captain’s 
face.  “It  grieved  me  to  hear  of 
your  wounds,”  he  said.  “It  was 
noble  of  you  to  sacrifice  yourself 
for  my  seamen,  but  you  are  the 
important  one.  You  should  have 
saved  yourself.” 

“It  grieved  me  to  hear  of  your 
imprisonment,”  Hilford  said.  “Es- 
pecially so  since  I was  responsible.” 

“You  were  not  responsible.  The 
duke  has  never  loved  the  League, 
and  he  is  quick  to  blame  us  for 
any  of  his  troubles.” 

“Have  you  found  your  traitor?” 

The  captain’s  fingers  formed 
words  that  were  strange  to  Hilford 
— rousing,  seaman  profanity.  “I 
shall  find  him.  And  he  will  be  lost 
at  sea  on  his  next  voyage.” 

“Perhaps  there  is  more  than 
one,”  Hilford  suggested. 

“It  is  possible.  The  Duke  Two 
Fingers  has  a large  purse.  But  the 
duke  is  not  yet  ready  to  fight  the 
League.  Later,  perhaps,  but  not 
now.” 

“We  risked  much  for  no  gain,” 
Hilford  said.  “I  heard  that  two 
men  were  lost.” 

“They  were  captured.  They  were 
wearing  black  capes,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  identify  them  as  sea- 
men. But  they  were  also  released. 
That  I do  not  understand.” 


SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


27 


“The  duke  is  crafty.  He  would 
like  to  know  what  we  were  seeking 
among  his  carts.  He  hopes  to  find 
out,  so  he  turned  everyone  loose, 
expecting  us  to  try  again.  But  we 
won’t  try  again.  It  would  be  use- 
less.” 

“You  are  not  strong,  now,”  the 
captain  said.  “You  have  lost  blood, 
and  you  need  rest.  When  you  have 
recovered,  we  will  make  new  plans.” 

“Yes,”  Hilford  said.  “When  I 
have  recovered.”  He  saw  his  dead- 
line marching  relentlessly  towards 
him,  one  day  at  each  stride.  Now 
there  were  twenty-one. 

Hilford  spent  three  days  in  the 
grip  of  a blazing  fever,  while  the 
worried  Kammian  doctor  minis- 
tered to  him  clumsily.  The  captain 
made  his  daily  visits.  The  perfume 
maker  came  with  new  mixtures, 
and  Hilford  indifferently  sub- 
mitted to  his  dabbings.  More  fail- 
ures. He  slept  and  woke,  and  some- 
times someone  was  there — the 
captain,  or  the  perfume  maker,  or 
the  doctor,  or  another  seaman. 
Sometimes  he  was  alone.  It  did  not 
seem  to  matter. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  awoke  and 
found  a stranger  in  the  room — 
a short,  rotund  man  whose  flaming 
red  hair  was  offset  by  the  black 
of  his  flowing  robes.  He  was  watch- 
ing Hilford  curiously.  “I  am  the 
Duke  One  Thumb,”  he  said.  Hil- 
ford stirred  weakly,  and  struggled 
to  sit  up.  “No,”  the  duke’s  chubby 
fingers  told  him.  “You  need  rest. 
I have  a great  admiration  for  a 
man  who  braves  the  imjjossible.” 

“Nothing  is  impossible,”  Hilford 
said. 

28 


The  duke  bowed  respectfully. 
“The  captain  has  informed  me  of 
your  wish  to  see  me.  How  may  I 
serve  you?” 

“I  would  like  to  make  you  the 
next  Keeper  of  the  Bird,”  Hilford 
said,  and  knew  immediately  that 
it  sounded  ridiculous,  coming  from 
a sick  man,  from  a helpless  fugitive. 

The  duke  answered  matter-of- 
factly,  “Impossible.” 

“Do  not  all  dukes  have  an  equal 
chance?” 

The  duke  hesitated.  “Yes.  All 
dukes  have  an  equal  chance.  The 
Duke  Two  Fingers  and  his  brother, 
who  is  the  High  Priest  of  the  Bird, 
have  made  certain  changes  in  the 
way  the  choice  is  made,  but  the 
changes  are  not  new.  The  same 
procedures  were  in  use  at  the  time 
of  my  grandfather’s  grandfather. 
So  all  dukes  should  have  an  equal 
chance,  but  the  Duke  Two  Fingers 
will  be  chosen.” 

“How  is  the  choice  made?” 

“I  cannot  tell  you.  Only  the 
dukes  and  the  Priests  of  the  Bird 
are  privileged  to  know.” 

“Do  you  approve  of  the  giving 
of  lives  of  men  to  the  Bird?” 

The  duke  paled.  “You  know 
that?  But  . . .”  He  was  thought- 
ful. “I  know  there  have  been 
rumors.  No,  I do  not  approve.  It  is 
a terrible  thing.  A sickening  thing. 
But  I cannot  change  it.” 

“You  would  do  things  differently 
if  you  were  Keeper  of  the  Bird?” 
“There  are  many  things  I would 
do  differently.” 

“You  won’t  tell  me  how  the 
choice  is  made?  For  Kamm?” 

“I  have  sworn  my  oath.  I cannot 
tell.” 


LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


“Did  you  know  that  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers  plans  to  rule  all  of 
Kamm?” 

“I  have  guessed.” 

“But  you  still  cannot  tell  me 
how  the  choice  is  made?” 

The  duke  said  nothing,  but  he 
met  Hilford’s  gaze  firmly.  He  was 
not,  Hilford  thought,  the  irresolute 
weakling  he  had  expected.  He 
would  be  a good  man.  Firm,  but 
honest.  The  Federation  could  deal 
with  such  a man. 

“You  know  that  I am  of  the 
Federation?”  he  asked. 

“Yes.  The  Federation  has  al- 
ways been  just  in  its  dealings  with 
Kamm.” 

“You  know  that  the  Duke  Two 
Fingers  has  guests  from  the  sky 
who  are  not  of  the  Federation?” 
He  grimaced,  and  answered  dis- 
gustedly, “Yes.  They  are  evil  men. 
Fit  companions  for  the  Duke  Two 
Fingers.” 

“Have  they  given  the  duke 
weapons?” 

“No.  They  have  refused  to  give 
the  duke  weapons.”  He  smiled  at 
Hilford’s  surprise.  “I  have  my  own 
sources  of  information,”  he  said. 

“Did  you  know  that  the  men  of 
the  Federation’s  trade  commission 
were  murdered  by  some  strange 
and  powerful  weapon?” 

“I  heard  of  the  deaths,  I do  not 
understand  them,  but  I do  not 
think  the  Duke  Two  Fingers  has 
such  a weapon.” 

“Perhaps  his  evil  guests  used  it.” 
“That  is  possible.  Yes,  it  must 
have  happened  that  way.” 

Hilford  felt  that  he  had  reached 
an  impasse.  The  duke  was  the  one 
man  he  was  likely  to  meet  who 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


could  tell  him  everything  he  needed 
to  know.  And  the  duke  had  sworn 
an  oath,  and  he  was  a man  who 
would  honor  his  oath. 

“The  chosen  duke  is  called 
Keeper  of  the  Bird”  Hilford  said 
suddenly.  “Why?” 

The  duke  looked  at  him  curious- 
ly. “Because  he  is  the  Keeper  of 
the  Bird,” 

“A  real  Bird?  A live  Bird?” 
“Of  course.” 

‘T  did  not  know  such  Birds 
actually  existed.” 

“Many  of  them  exist.  One  is 
chosen  at  the  same  time  that  the 
duke  is  chosen,  and  entrusted  to 
his  care  for  the  term  of  his  office.” 
“Entrusted  to  his  care,”  Hilford 
mused.  “He  is  responsible  for  it, 
then.  Supposing  the  duke  is  negli- 
gent?” 

The  Duke  One  Thumb  smiled. 
“He  will  not  be  negligent.  It  is 
always  a young  and  healthy  Bird, 
and  the  Keeper  of  the  Bird  lavishes 
tender  care  upon  it.  He  would 
guard  it  with  his  life.  If  it  were  to 
die,  he  would  lose  his  office  im- 
mediately, and  he  could  never  hold 
the  office  again.” 

“I  understand.  And  the  Keeper 
of  the  Bird  rules  all  the  Black- 
Gapes  on  Kamm.” 

“Yes.  But  he  can  send  them  into 
another  province  only  when  a duke 
requests  them.  And  the  other  dukes 
can  have  no  armed  men  outside 
of  their  personal  guard,  unless  they 
request  them  of  the  Keeper  of  the 
Bird,  My  personal  guard  is  large, 
and  there  are  few  Black-Gapes  in 
the  Round  Province.” 

A neat  arrangement  for  an  am- 
bitious Keeper  of  the  Bird,  Hilford 

29 


thought.  By  controlling  the  Black- 
Capes,  he  alone,  of  all  the  dukes, 
could  raise  a standing  army.  When 
his  army  was  large  enough,  he  could 
take  over  all  of  Kamm. 

But  he  would  have  to  have  a 
powerful  army,  because  the  other 
eleven  dukes  would  unite  against 
him  if  he  attacked  one.  With 
Kamm’s  scanty  resources  it  would 
take  time  to  plan  a full-scale  con- 
quest. It  would  take  more  than 
a five-year  term  as  Keeper  of  the 
Bird. 

A lottery  which  shifted  the  power 
from  duke  to  duke  at  regular  in- 
tervals had  been  a sound  system. 
But  once  a duke  rigged  the  lottery 
and  got  himself  chosen  for  several 
consecutive  terms,  the  entire  bal- 
ance of  power  on  the  planet  was  up- 
set. The  Duke  Two  Fingers  was 
finishing  his  third  term.  A fourth 
would  enable  him  to  conquer 
Kamm. 

“When  is  the  next  Keeper  of 
the  Bird  to  be  chosen?”  Hilford 
asked. 

“I  cannot  tell  you  that.” 

“It  must  be  soon,  or  you  would 
not  be  here.” 

“That  much  you  know.  I cannot 
tell  you  more.” 

Hilford  struggled  weakly,  and 
pushed  himself  into  a sitting  posi- 
tion. “I  will  be  present  when  the 
choice  is  made.  I will  make  you  the 
next  Keeper  of  the  Bird.^^ 

The  duke  clasped  Hilford’s 
hands,  and  bent  forward  until 
their  forearms  touched.  “You  are 
a brave  man.  Unfortunately,  it  is 
impossible.  It  would  mean  your 
death,  and  it  would  be  a terrible 
death.”  He  slid  open  the  panel, 

30 


and  turned  again  before  he  stepped 
through.  “Your  life  would  be  given 
to  the  Birds.” 


HE  PERFUME  maker  had 
been  respectfully  waiting  for 
the  duke  to  leave.  He  stepped 
through  the  panel,  solemn  as  usual, 
and  l^ded  Hilford  a small  bottle. 
“Mixture  number  thirty-one,”  he 
said  sadly. 

“Fm  afraid  your  task  is  even 
more  impossible  than  mine,”  Hil- 
ford said. 

“I  shall  succeed.  I have  had 
worse  tasks.  The  Duke  Two  Fingers 
himself  once  gave  me  a worse  task, 
and  I accomplished  it.” 

“What  need  did  the  duke  have 
for  perfume?” 

“He  wanted  a scent  that  the 
Birds  would  not  like.” 

“The  Holy  Birds?”  Hilford 
straightened  up  attentively. 

“Yes.  They  are  most  repulsive 
creatures.  I worked  for  weeks.  I 
would  drench  a rodent  with  scent 
and  put  him  in  their  cage,  and 
they  would  eat  him.  My  two 
hundred  and  sixty-third  mixture 
was  a success.  The  rodent  was  per- 
fectly safe  with  them — ^until  the 
scent  wore  off.  Then  they  tore 
him  to  pieces.  It  was  not  pleasant, 
seeing  those  Birds  every  day.  I did 
not  sleep  well  for  weeks  after- 
wards.” 

“You  saw  them  at  the  duke’s 
palace?” 

“Yes.” 

“I  thought  the  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  kept  only  one  bird.” 

“These  were  brought  by  the 
duke’s  brother,  who  is  a Priest  of 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


the  Bird.  I think  the  priests  wanted 
something  to  protect  themselves 
from  the  Birds,  and  I do  not  blame 
them.  Anyway,  that  was  years  ago 
— long  before  the  Duke  Two 
Fingers  became  Keeper  of  the 
Bird.  Perhaps  he  uses  it  himself, 
now,  with  a Bird  in  his  palace.  I 
mixed  him  a new  batch  only  a 
month  ago.” 

“You  are  the  first  person  I’ve 
met,  outside  of  the  Duke  One 
Thumb,  who  has  ever  seen  a live 
Bird.” 

“The  Duke  Two  Fingers  pledged 
me  to  secrecy.  You  are  the  first  I 
have  ever  told.” 

“I  shall  respect  your  confidence,” 
Hilford  said.  “And  I shall  give 
your  mixture  thirty-one  the  usual 
critical  test.” 

The  perfume  maker  smiled  wist- 
fully. “I  shall  commence  mixture 
thii^-two,  just  in  case.” 

Captain  Fist  came  in  the  eve- 
ning, and  sat  for  a long  time  with 
his  fingers  silent,  looking  weary 
and  troubled.  “I  must  leave  you,” 
he  said  finally.  “I  have  rarely 
stayed  in  00  for  so  long,  and  the 
Black-Capes  are  suspicious.  Now 
they  follow  me  everywhere.  So  I 
must  make  a short  voyage.  I’ll  be 
back  in  ten  days,  and  less  if  the 
winds  favor  me.  You  will  be  well 
looked  after — I promise  that.” 

“Thank  you,”  Hilford  said.  He 
had  never  felt  more  helpless.  He 
was  too  weak  to  leave  his  hiding 
place,  and  if  he  did  the  first  Black- 
Cape  that  happened  along  would 
arrest  him.  And  he  could  no  longer 
fully  trust  the  League. 

“I  will  see  you  as  soon  as  I 
return,”  the  captain  said.  He  arose 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


to  go,  stepped  towards  the  panel, 
and  suddenly  whirled  about  and 
stared  incredulously.  Twice  he 
raised  his  hands  to  speak,  and 
dropped  them. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  Hilford 
asked  anxiously. 

“I  just  noticed.  I no  longer 
smell  you!” 

“Mixture  thirty-one,”  Hilford 
said  gleefully.  “Tell  the  perfume 
maker  to  send  up  a large  bottle.” 

After  the  captain  had  gone,  he 
made  his  plans.  He  would  have  to 
get  out  of  00.  Whatever  else  he 
might  learn  in  the  capital  city  of 
the  Duke  Two  Fingers,  he  could 
not  finish  his  assignment  there. 
And  if  he  stayed  longer,  the 
League’s  traitor  might  learn  of  his 
hiding  place. 

He  left  only  a note  of  thanks  for 
the  seamen,  and  carrying  the  large 
bottle  of  scent  that  the  jubilant  per- 
fume maker  had  delivered,  he 
slipped  out  of  the  inn  into  the  dark 
streets  of  00. 

He  wore  his  seaman’s  hat  until 
he  was  clear  of  the  town.  Once  a 
Black-Cape  stopped  him,  and  as 
Hilford  gripped  his  stun-gun  the 
policeman  noticed  his  hat  and 
passed  him  by  with  a nod.  Outside 
of  00  Hilford  changed  to  the 
peddler’s  hat,  and  struck  out  along 
the  grassy  ruts  of  the  cart  path  that 
led  northwards  towards  the  moun- 
tains. 

He  tired  quickly,  but  he  dogged- 
ly kept  a firm  pace  and  pushed 
himself  onwards.  The  sun  rose, 
and  slowly  added  its  brisk  warmth 
to  his  feverish  discomfort.  Soon 
each  staggering  stride  became  a 

31 


matter  of  forced  concentration. 

He  pushed  his  weakened  body 
forward  until  mid-moming,  and 
he  collapsed  in  a scant  patch  of 
shade  on  a hilltop,  with  the  build- 
ings of  00  still  visible  on  the  south- 
ern horizon.  He  could  go  no 
farther. 

To  the  north,  he  saw  a small 
village  of  scattered,  colorful  houses, 
a peddler  with  ox  and  cart  plodding 
up  the  hill  towards  him — and,  in 
the  hazy  distance,  the  beckoning, 
snow-covered  mountains.  He  strug- 
gled to  his  feet,  and  stopped  the 
peddler.  In  five  minutes  of  oblique 
negotiations  he  purchased  ox,  cart 
and  merchandise  at  a price  that 
roughly  equaled  their  sound  value 
times  ten.  In  the  village  he  dis- 
posed of  half  the  merchandise  to 
a wily  old  shopkeeper  at  a ruinous 
loss,  and  stocked  up  on  food.  Once 
clear  of  the  village,  he  climbed 
into  the  half-empty  cart  and  fash- 
ioned a cramped  resting  place  for 
himself. 

A swat  across  its  hindquarters 
started  the  ox.  It  lurched  dumbly 
forward  along  the  path  it  had 
followed  less  than  an  hour  before, 
having  no  apparent  interest  either 
in  where  it  was  going  or  where  it 
had  been.  Hilford  watched  anxious- 
ly to  see  if  it  would  follow  the  path 
'without  supervision.  When  it  did, 
he  lay  down  and  fought  the  agony 
that  stabbed  his  wounds  as  the  cart 
rocked  and  bumped  over  the  ruts. 
Finally  his  exhaustion  triumphed, 
and  he  slept. 

It  was  dark  when  he  awoke.  The 
northward  track  lay  ahead  of  him 
in  the  dim  moonlight,  and  the  ox 
was  plodding  along  indifferently. 


He  got  out  and  staggered  beside  it 
for  a time,  attempting  to  exercise 
his  cramped  muscles,  but  the  effort 
proved  too  much  for  him.  He  led 
the  ox  off  the  main  track  and  into 
the  shelter  of  some  trees  to  rest. 

He  did  not  know  when  the  dukes 
would  leave  00,  or  how  fast  they 
could  travel.  His  only  hope  lay  in 
reaching  the  mountains  ahead  of 
them.  If  he  could  do  that,  he  might 
have  a chance. 

And  the  attack  would  come  in 
sixteen  days. 

The  following  day  he  suffered  a 
relapse.  He  lay  in  his  cart,  burning 
with  fever,  while  the  ox  moved 
patiently  onwards.  Day  blurred  in- 
to night  and  became  day  again, 
and  he  lost  track  of  time.  Perhaps 
the  ox  rested  when  it  grew  tired, 
or  perhaps  not.  Perhaps  his  cart 
met  travelers  along  the  way,  or 
perhaps  not.  He  did  not  know. 

He  was  able,  finally,  to  get  out  of 
the  cart  and  walk  beside  the  ox. 
He  knew  that  five  days  had  passed, 
and  perhaps  it  was  six  or  seven. 
He  walked,  and  rested,  and  his 
strength  began  to  return  to  him. 
The  next  morning,  from  the  side 
of  a mountain  slope,  he  looked 
down  on  the  scraggly  forested,  roll- 
ing plain,  and  saw  a long,  bright- 
ly colored  caravan  creeping  towards 
him — animals,  carts,  attendants  and 
the  royal  personages  of  the  six 
southern  dukes.  He  moved  on,  and 
his  ox  panted  and  strained  as  it 
hauled  the  cart  up  a steep  moun- 
tain pass. 

Kamm’s  belt  of  conical  moun- 
tains appeared  to  be  of  volcanic 
origin,  and  the  peaks  on  the  south- 
ern fringe  were  arranged  confusedly 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


32 


— now  humped  closely  upon  one 
another,  now  widely  spaced.  The 
rough  cart  path  went  its  winding 
way  among  the  lofty  trees,  passing 
between  two  mountains  with  scarce- 
ly a ripple  in  elevation,  then  point- 
ing its  way  steeply  upwards  a 
thousand  feet  for  the  next  pass. 

Hilford  pushed  forward,  dis- 
daining food  and  sleep,  until  ex- 
haustion had  overcome  him  again, 
and  the  skin  of  the  toiling,  perspir- 
ing ox  hung  in  flabby  folds.  On 
the  morning  of  his  third  day  in 
the  mountains  he  came  upon  a 
broad,  wooded  valley.  He  lashed 
the  ox  furiously,  forcing  it  into  a 
stumbling  run.  He  must  cross  the 
valley  before  the  dukes’  party  came 
out  of  the  pass.  He  must  not  be 
seen. 

By  noon  he  had  crossed  the 
valley  and  gained  the  refuge  of  the 
tree-covered  slope  on  the  opposite 
side.  He  rested,  and  the  ox  collapsed 
in  its  harness.  He  could  safely  go 
no  farther,  he  thought.  Now  he 
must  wait  until  the  dukes  had 
passed  him,  and  follow  them. 

The  long  caravan  descended  into 
the  valley  in  mid-afternoon,  crossed 
it,  and  set  up  camp  on  the  north 
side.  As  darkness  came  on,  Hilford 
looked  down  on  the  bright  fires 
with  satisfaction.  Everything  had 
gone  according  to  plan.  In  the 
morning,  he  would  let  them  pass 
him,  and  then  follow.  But  he  must 
not  oversleep. 

He  awoke  with  the  first  light  of 
dawn  in  his  face,  and  hurried  to 
look  down  on  the  sprawling  camp. 
There  was  little  sign  of  activity. 
He  returned  to  his  cart,  ate,  and 
relaxed  while  the  ox  grazed  con- 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


tentedly  on  the  forest  bushes.  At 
noon,  cooking  fires  dotted  the  camp. 
The  attendants  finished  their  meal, 
and  retired  to  their  tents.  Oxen 
were  tethered  out  to  pasture.  Carts 
were  parked  neatly  around  the 
perimeter  of  the  camp.  The  dukes 
were  evidently  in  no  hurry. 

Puzzled,  Hilford  turned  away 
and  walked  to  the  top  of  the  pass. 
He  looked  down  into  the  valley 
to  the  north,  and  to  his  amazement 
he  saw  another  camp  site — the 
oxen,  the  carts,  the  colorful  tents. 

Understanding  came  suddenly, 
and  crushed  him.  This  was  the 
camp  of  the  northern  dukes.  Only 
the  dukes  could  enter  the  Temple 
of  the  Bird,  and  they  had  left 
their  retinues  and  gone  on  alone, 
and  he  had  lost  them.  His  exhaust- 
ing journey  had  been  wasted. 

But  he  still  had  a few  days— five, 
perhaps — and  the  dukes  would  not 
undertake  a long  journey  by  them- 
selves. The  Temple  of  the  Bird 
should  be  within  a day’s  walk  of 
the  camps.  There  should  be  some 
kind  of  path  or  road  leading  to  it. 
The  Temple  would  need  supplies. 

A movement  through  the  trees 
to  his  left  startled  him.  He  leaped 
to  his  feet,  gripping  his  stun-gun, 
and  saw  that  his  ox  had  pulled  loose 
and  was  wandering  about  seeking 
choice  leaves  to  munch.  With  a 
grin,  he  turned  and  hurried  away 
through  the  trees.  He  was  a peddler, 
seeking  his  strayed  ox. 

He  found  the  path  just  as  dark- 
ness was  falling,  a meandering 
foot  path  that  led  up  out  of  the 
valley.  He  quickly  lost  it  in  the 
darkness,  but  he  knew  its  general 

33 


direction,  which  was  up,  and  he 
kept  moving.  An  hour  later  he  saw 
a flash  of  light  on  the  mountain 
slope,  far  above  him. 

But  he  found  nothing — no  im- 
posing Temple  with  brightly- 
painted  facade,  no  buildings,  no 
signs  that  humans  had  passed  that 
way.  He  wandered  on  in  the  dark- 
ness, feeling  the  deep  chill  of  the 
mountain  air,  feeling  the  weakness 
that  he  had  been  unable  to  shake 
off  in  his  relentless  struggle  to 
reach  the  mountains. 

A cloud  choked  ofT  the  last  feeble 
glimmer  of  the  smallest  Kammian 
moon.  He  slowed  his  pace,  and 
peered  uncertainly  ahead  of  him. 
Suddenly  his  foot  found  emptiness, 
and  he  struggled  for  balance,  lost 
it,  and  tumbled  downwards. 

He  landed  on  a metal  framework 
ten  feet  below  the  surface,  and 
found  himself  in  a caged  airshaft, 
about  six  feet  in  diameter.  Before 
he  could  collect  his  confused  senses 
pain  stabbed  at  his  arm,  and  he 
jerked  away  and  stood  in  the  center 
of  the  cage  while  the  giant,  hideous- 
ly colored  Holy  Birds  of  Kamm 
fluttered  greedily  about  him.  One 
swooped  up  from  below  and 
slashed  at  his  ankle.  The  bars 
formed  a perfect  ladder,  and  he 
made  a rush  to  climb  out  and 
was  forced  back  by  tearing  talons 
and  ripping  beaks.  He  experienced 
a wave  of  dizziness,  with  a throb- 
bing, pounding  sensation  in  his 
head.  While  he  stood  there  in  be- 
wilderment, he  saw  in  the  dim 
light  far  below  a black-hooded 
Priest  of  the  Bird  staring  up  at  him. 
The  priest  whirled  suddenly,  and 
ran. 


IT  WAS  A small,  barren  room 
hewn  out  of  rock.  Three  black- 
hooded  priests  filed  in,  paused  to 
sniff  Hilford  carefully,  and  took 
their  seats.  He  sniffed  them  in  turn, 
and  caught  a powerful,  pungent 
odor  that  seemed  at  the  same  time 
agreeable  and  repulsive.  He  found 
an  element  of  humor  in  the  situa- 
tion. He  might  have  said,  “We 
have  something  in  common,  gentle- 
men. We  patronize  the  same  per- 
fume maker.”  But  the  grim-looking 
priests  would  not  have  appreciated 
the  joke. 

He  stood  before  them,  tottering 
weakly,  blood  flowing  from  his 
arm  and  ankle,  and  told  his  story. 
The  elder  priest  leaned  forward  as 
he  finished,  and  Hilford  found  the 
haughty  nose  and  cruel  features 
vaguely  familiar.  This  would  be 
the  younger  brother  of  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers. 

He  moved  his  fingers  languidly, 
bored  to  have  such  a trifle  brought 
to  his  attention.  “A  stray  ox  was 
found  this  evening,”  he  said.  “Your 
story  may  be  true.  If  so,  that  is 
unfortunate.  You  have  had  the 
high  honor  of  seeing  the  Holy  Birds 
of  Kamm.  You  have  entered  the 
forbidden  Temple.  Your  life  is 
forfeited  to  the  Birds.” 

The  two  younger  priests  led  Hil- 
ford away.  They  passed  through  a 
labyrinth  of  corridors,  straight, 
curving,  ascending,  descending, 
branching  off.  They  passed  through 
a barred  door,  and  another,  and 
Hilford  was  shoved  forward  into 
a long  room  that  was  nothing  more 
than  a wide,  barren  corridor.  Bars 
closed  silently  behind  him. 

At  the  far  end  were  more  bars. 


34 


LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


and  half  a hundred  men  of  Kamm 
stood  about,  or  squatted,  or 
stretched  out  on  the  damp  rock 
floor.  Sobs  shook  one  man’s  huge 
frame— the  only  evidence  of  his 
silent  weeping.  Hilford’s  searching 
gaze  photographed  the  faces,  and 
suddenly  found  one  that  was  fa- 
miliar. Zorrel! 

The  young  agent  walked  towards 
him,  grinning  happily.  They  stood 
close  together,  so  their  fingers  could 
have  some  privacy.  “Now  there  are 
five  of  us,”  Zorrel  said. 

“Three  other  agents  here?” 

“Such  as  they  are.  Their  morale 
isn’t  exactly  good.  They’ve  been 
treated  badly,  and  they’ve  had  the 
misfortune  to  see  what  happened 
to  some  other  agents.”  He  stopped 
suddenly,  and  fingered  Hilford’s 
blood-soaked  sleeve. 

“My  introduction  to  the  Birds,” 
Hilford  told  him. 

“Then  I don’t  need  to  explain.” 

“About  the  birds,  no.  About  this 
layout,  yes.” 

“Gome,”  Zorrel  said.  He  led  Hil- 
ford to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and 
they  stood  looking  out  through  the 
bars  upon  an  enormous,  domed, 
circular  arena.  At  intervals  around 
the  sides  there  were  pairs  of  barred 
openings  about  the  size  of  a large 
door — one  at  floor  level,  and  one 
directly  above  it.  In  the  center  of 
the  arena  was  a cage — just  big 
enough,  Hilford  thought  grimly,  to 
hold  a man. 

“This  is  the  lottery  where  the 
Keeper  of  the  Bird  is  chosen,  and 
other  important  matters  are  de- 
cided,” Zorrel  said.  “Each  duke  has 
his  own  royal  box — the  upper 
openings.  There  are  twelve  of  them. 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


When  the  great  moment  comes, 
the  arena  is  filled  with  birds,  and 
the  victim  is  placed  in  the  cage. 
The  lower  doors  are  opened,  and 
the  cage  is  hoisted  up  to  the  dome. 
All  the  victim  has  to  do  is  get  from 
the  center  of  the  arena  over  to  one 
of  the  lower  doors  before  the  birds 
tear  him  to  pieces.  The  first  few 
don’t  get  very  far,  but  eventually 
the  birds  have  their  hunger  satis- 
fied, and  they  lose  interest.  The 
victims  get  farther  and  farther, 
and  finally  one  makes  it.  And  what- 
ever door  he  escapes  through,  that 
duke  is  the  next  Keeper  of  the 
Bird.  Pleasant  little  game,  isn’t  it?” 

Hilford  shuddered.  He’d  had  his 
share  of  experience  with  barbarism 
and  violence  and  human  sacrifice, 
but  only  with  the  most  primitive 
civilizations.  It  had  seemed  natural, 
there.  Here  it  was  only  gruesome. 

“Generations  ago,  they  stopped 
using  humans  and  changed  to  ani- 
mals,” Zorrel  went  on.  “But  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers  is  reviving  the 
old  customs.  It’s  a nice  thing  for 
the  victim  that  finally  makes  it.  He 
receives  high  honors,  and  he  might 
even  marry  a daughter  of  a duke,  if 
one  is  available.  For  the  ones  that 
don’t  make  it,  it  isn’t  so  nice.” 

“When  is  the  lottery  to  take 
place?” 

Zorrel  laughed  sardonically.  “Any 
minute,  now.  We — ” his  gesture 
swept  the  bare  room  “ — are  the 
victims.  Wonder  if  the  Birds  think 
old  men  are  tougher  eating  than 
young  men.  You  might  stand  a 
better  chance  than  a young,  tender 
morsel  like  me.” 

Hilford  stood  looking  thought- 
fully out  at  the  arena. 

35 


“There’s  no  escape  that  way,” 
Zorrel  said.  “And  you  know  what’s 
at  the  other  end — two  barred 
doors,  and  a couple  of  squads  of 
priestly  guards.  Once  the  festivities 
start,  they’re  going  to  be  more  in- 
terested in  watching  the  arena  than 
us.”  He  patted  his  stun-gun.  “That 
would  be  a good  time  to  take  over 
this  place.” 

“I’ve  picked  up  a fair  amount  of 
information  myself,”  Hilford  said. 
“I  think  I have  most  of  the  picture, 
now.  The  question  is,  what  do  we 
do  with  it?” 

“The  question  is,  how  do  we  get 
out  of  here?” 

“We’re  intelligence  agents,”  Hil- 
ford said.  “We  have  an  assign- 
ment.” 

“All  right — I’m  with  you.  Better 
not  count  too  much  on  the  others. 
And  I’ll  tell  you  one  thing.”  He 
patted  the  stun-gun  again.  “If  they 
put  me  in  that  arena,  the  Birds  are 
going  to  regret  it.  A full  charge 
would  kill  a Bird.” 

“That  wouldn’t  solve  anything. 
It  wouldn’t  even  get  you  out  alive. 
The  priests  would  tear  you  apart 
if  the  Birds  didn’t.  Your  gun’s 
charge  won’t  last  forever,  and  mine 
is  pretty  well  gone  now.” 

“So  what  do  we  do?” 

“I  want  to  snoop  around,  and 
talk  to  our  fellow  victims.” 

He  moved  back  up  the  room, 
passed  by  one  man  who  was  gripj>ed 
in  a coma  of  trembling  fear,  and 
stopped  beside  a small,  wizened 
oldster  who  grinned  at  him  cheer- 
fully. 

“Don’t  get  discouraged,”  he  said 
to  Hilford.  “Maybe  you’ll  be  lucky, 
like  me.” 


“Lucky  in  what  way?” 

“My  number  doesn’t  come  up. 
Been  here  four  years,  and — ^here  I 
am.  They  don’t  call  my  number. 
Food  is  good,  quarters  aren’t  bad, 
and  they  don’t  give  you  much  work 
to  do.  It  isn’t  a bad  life  if  you 
don’t  mind  being  herded  down 
here  on  Holy  Days  and  the  like.” 
Hilford  jerked  a thumb  at  the 
arena.  “You  enjoy  what  goes  on 
there?” 

“I  don’t  let  it^bother  me.  Sure 
— I tell  myself  it  might  be  me,  in 
there.  But  it  isn’t,  and  I’ll  die  of 
old  age  before  they  get  to  me.” 
“You’ve  been  here  four  years,” 
Hilford  said.  “How  many  lives  have 
you  seen  given  to  the  Birds?” 
“Don’t  know.  Couple  of  hundred, 
maybe.  Of  course,  on  Holy  Days 
it’s  only  one.  I never  saw  a Choice. 
They  say  they  use  a lot  of  us  for  a 
Choice.” 

Hilford  walked  on.  He  found  the 
three  intelligence  agents,  talked 
with  them  briefly,  and  left  them. 
They  had  been  badly  mistreated. 
Marks  on  their  hands  suggested 
torture.  They  had  been  starved, 
and  they  were  almost  too  weak  to 
walk.  He’d  have  to  get  them  out, 
of  course,  if  he  could.  But  he 
couldn’t  count  on  them  for  assist- 
ance. 

Suddenly  a familiar  odor  caught 
his  attention,  bitter  and  pungent, 
vaguely  irritating,  vaguely  pleasant. 
He  turned  towards  it  and  saw  a 
lean,  bronze  young  man  of  unmis- 
takable physical  hardness.  He 
studied  his  face  carefully.  He  had 
seen  him  somewhere — in  a crowd, 
perhaps,  where  the  face  had  been 
only  one  of  many. 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


36 


But  only  one  group  of  Kammians 
achieved  that  physical  condition. 
He  was  a seaman.  And  he  was 
generously  anointed  with  the  scent 
of  the  Priests  of  the  Bird. 

“That’s  a potent  perfume  you 
wear,”  Hilford  said. 

The  seaman  glanced  at  him 
sullenly,  and  said  nothing. 

“The  League  will  be  pleased  to 
know  who  their  traitor  is.” 

The  seaman  started.  He  smiled 
slowly.  “They  were  bound  to  get 
you,  sooner  or  later.  And  the 
League  will  never  learn  from  you.” 
“Give  my  regards  to  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers,”  Hilford  said. 

He  turned,  and  walked  back  to 
Zorrel.  Odd,  he  thought,  how  sud- 
denly the  inexplicable  is  unraveled. 
He  knew  who  the  League’s  traitor 
was — or  one  of  the  traitors.  And 
he  knew  how  the  Duke  Two  Fingers 
rigged  the  lottery. 

He  explained  to  Zorrel,  who 
scoffed,  at  first,  and  then  displayed 
a refined  mastery  of  Kammian  pro- 
fanity. “Then  the  whole  thing  is 
a farce,”  he  said.  “They  call  some 
numbers  to  put  on  a good  show  for 
the  other  dukes,  and  then  they  send 
this  fellow  in.  And  the  birds  won’t 
touch  him.  And  he  walks  through 
the  Duke  Two  Fingers*  door,  and 
the  show  is  over.” 

“For  another  five  years.” 

“We  can  arrange  an  accident  for 
this  seaman.  At  least  the  lottery 
would  be  genuine.” 

“Too  many  witnesses,”  Hilford 
said.  “And  it  wouldn’t  help  the 
situation.  All  the  priests  would  have 
to  do  is  douse  another  prisoner  with 
scent,  and  show  him  where  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers’  door  is.” 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


“So  what  do  we  do  about  it?” 

“Nothing.  I checked  that  door, 
and  it  can  only  be  opened  from 
the  other  side.  There’s  no  way  out 
of  here.  We’ll  have  to  wait  until 
they  take  us  somewhere  else.” 

“What  if  they  try  to  feed  us  to 
the  Birds?” 

“Let  me  know  if  you  figure  out 
something.” 

They  sat  down  along  the  wall, 
and  waited.  Hilford  glanced  again 
at  the  arena.  There  were  caged 
air  vents  in  the  ceiling,  but  the  one 
that  had  trapped  him  opened  into 
a smaller  room.  Enormous  natural 
caves,  he  decided,  altered  by  gen- 
erations of  priests  to  suit  their 
purposes.  The  religion  of  Kamm 
would  provide  fascinating  study 
material  for  some  young  Federation 
ethnologist — if  he  were  lucky 
enough  to  survive  to  collect  it. 

A door  opened,  and  the  black- 
robed,  black-hooded  priests 
marched  in.  The  prisoners  were 
summarily  lined  up  against  the 
wall,  and  a young  priest  moved 
down  the  line  painting  red  num- 
bers on  their  foreheads. 

“The  paint  rubs  off  easily,”  he 
said.  “Any  man  found  with  a bare 
forehead  will  be  given  to  the  Birds 
immediately.” 

Perspiration  trickled  down  many 
foreheads,  but  Hilford  noticed  that 
no  one  brushed  it  away. 

There  was  movement  in  the 
arena.  A Bird  dove  hungrily  at 
their  barred  door,  and  swooped  up- 
wards. Momentary  panic  followed, 
as  pale  prisoners  milled  back 
away  from  the  arena  and  the 
priests  angrily  sought  to  restore 
order.  Four  priests  entered  the 

37 


arena,  and  calmly  walked  towards 
the  cage  in  the  center.  The  air 
was  suddenly  filled  with  enormous, 
flapping  wings  as  the  birds  de- 
scended voraciously,  and  then 
veered  away.  The  priests  pushed 
the  cage  towards  the  door  where 
the  victims  were  waiting.  The 
Choice  was  about  to  be  made. 

The  High  Priest  himself  strode 
the  length  of  the  room  with  a ret- 
inue of  priests  trailing  behind  him. 
He  stood  for  a moment  looking 
out  at  the  arena.  Apparently  satis- 
fied that  all  was  in  order,  he  turned, 
and  a metal  jar  was  passed  to  him. 
He  shook  it  sideways,  then  upright, 
until  a disc  dropped  out  of  a slot 
in  the  bottom.  He  looked  down, 
signaled  indifferently,  “Thirty- 
seven,”  and  kicked  it  away.  A young 
priest  retrieved  it,  and  number 
thirty-seven,  a giant  of  a man, 
brushed  Hilford’s  arm  as  he  top- 
pled to  the  floor  in  a dead  faint. 

Priests  stripped  off  his  clothing, 
the  door  swung  back,  and  he  was 
shoved  into  the  cage.  The  priests 
slowly  pushed  it  to  the  center  of 
the  arena,  and  left  it.  A signal, 
and  the  cage  jerked  upwards. 

Those  in  the  room  watched  with 
a compulsion  born  of  horror. 
Grouching,  number  thirty-seven 
bolted  for  the  side  of  the  arena  as 
soon  as  the  cage  was  clear  of  him. 
The  first  Bird  plummeted  down- 
wards, raked  his  back,  and  sent 
him  sprawling.  He  rolled  onto 
his  back,  lashing  out  with  arms  and 
legs.  Somehow  he  clutched  a Bird 
by  the  wing,  and  there  was  a 
momentary  stir  of  alarm  among  the 
priests. 

But  another  Bird  found  his  eyes, 
38 


and  another  his  throat.  Then  the 
struggle  was  over  and  the  feast 
began.  The  cage  was  lowered,  and 
the  priests,  ignored  by  the  Birds 
who  fought  over  thirty-seven’s  re- 
mains, returned  the  cage  to  the 
doorway. 

The  High  Priest  shook  the  jar 
again.  “Number  forty-two.” 

The  priests  dragged  him  for- 
ward, and  four  years  of  luck  ran 
out  on  the  wizened  little  man  who 
thought  to  die  of  old  age.  Fear 
paralyzed  his  legs,  and  the  priests 
load  to  support  his  body  while  they 
stripped  off  his  clothes.  They  rudely 
stuffed  him  into  the  cage. 

When  the  cage  went  up,  he 
slumped  to  a kneeling  position, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 
For  a terrible  moment  the  Birds 
took  no  notice  of  him.  Then  one 
circled  slowly,  and  landed  on  his 
back.  Pain  goaded  him  into  a 
furious  struggle,  but  he  had  waited 
too  long.  He  never  did  regain  his 
feet. 

The  High  Priest  raised  his  jar, 
and  the  bloody  game  continued. 
The  fifth  victim  called  was  the 
bronze  young  seaman.  He  strode 
forward  manfully,  but  once  in  the 
arena  he  acted  the  part  of  a 
terrified  victim.  He  ducked  and 
dodged,  stumbled  and  fell,  struggled 
to  his  feet  lashing  out  at  the  Birds. 
But  he  remained  untouched,  and 
he  worked  his  way  to  one  side  of 
the  arena,  and  suddenly  darted 
through  an  open  door. 

The  door  swung  shut.  All  the 
lights  in  the  royal  boxes  save  one 
were  extinguish^.  The  Duke  Two 
Fingers  was  chosen  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  for  another  five  years. 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


“The  end  of  a mission,”  Zorrel 
said. 

Hilford  shrugged.  “Or  the  begin- 
ning of  a mission.” 

Tension  in  the  room  relaxed  im- 
mediately. The  High  Priest  strutted 
out,  the  prisoners  wiped  the  num- 
bers from  their  foreheads,  and  the 
priests  organized  the  group  into  a 
double  column  and  marched  it 
away.  Hilford  and  Zorrel  held  back, 
and  were  last  in  line. 

“Prisoners  are  kept  ten  in  a 
room,”  Zorrel  said.  “The  rooms 
are  a long  way  from  the  exit — at 
least  from  where  I came  in.  These 
corridors  wind  all  over  the  place. 
I’m  not  sure  I could  find  my  way 
out.” 

Hilford  glanced  around.  “We’ll 
have  to  be  careful.  Those  darts 
they  shoot  can  be  painful.” 

The  procession  moved  on 
through  the  network  of  corridors. 
They  took  a last  turn,  and  came  to 
a row  of  barred  doors.  A priest 
counted  off  ten  prisoners,  slammed 
the  door  on  them,  and  barred  it. 

“Look  up  ahead,”  Hilford  said. 
“The  corridor  branches  off.  Where 
does  it  go?” 

“I  don’t  know.” 

Hilford  moved  to  conceal  his 
fingers  from  the  priests.  “When  our 
turn  comes,  we’ll  make  a dash  for 
it.  If  we  can  get  around  the  cor- 
ner, we’ll  be  safe  from  the  darts, 
and  we  can  knock  them  off  a 
couple  at  a time  as  they  come  after 
us.  We  might  be  lucky.” 

“I’ll  be  right  beside  you.” 

The  fourth  group  of  ten  was 
counted  off,  and  there  were  six 
men  left.  A priest  jerked  the  next 
door  open,  and  stood  blocking  the 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


corridor.  When  Hilford’s  turn  came, 
he  leaped  and  struck  once,  and 
shoved  the  priest’s  crumpled  body 
aside  as  he  raced  for  the  fork  in 
the  corridor.  He  sensed  Zorrel’s 
presence  close  behind  him.  They 
reached  the  fork  and  made  the  turn 
before  the  first  darts  flashed  past. 
The  startled  priests  had  been  slow 
to  react. 

They  were  in  a short  passageway 
that  branched  off  in  three  direc- 
tions. An  oil  lamp  overhead  cast 
eerie  reflections.  They  whirled  and 
stood  with  stun-guns  ready. 

“Full  power,”  Hilford  signaled. 
It  wouldn’t  do  to  have  the  men 
come  to  in  a few  minutes  and  de- 
scribe what  had  happened. 

The  first  priests  came  charging 
around  the  turn.  In  a matter  of 
seconds  a dozen  bodies  lay  on  the 
corridor  floor.  They  stripped  two 
of  the  men,  dragged  their  bodies 
into  an  empty  room,  and  donned 
their  black  robes  and  hoods.  They 
strolled  calmly  back  the  way  they 
had  come.  No  one  questioned  them, 
but  it  took  them  all  of  half  an 
hour  to  find  the  exit. 

They  moved  down  the  mountain 
path  in  the  cold  air  of  early  dawn, 
ignoring  the  priests  on  sentry  duty. 
As  soon  as  they  reached  the  protec- 
tion of  the  trees,  Hilford  stopped. 

“Head  straight  west  until  you 
find  the  cart  track  that  leads  north 
through  the  mountains,”  he  said. 
“Follow  the  track  to  the  top  of  the 
pass.  My  cart  is  hidden  in  the  trees 
maybe  fifty  feet  to  the  west.  In  the 
cart  you’ll  find  a large  bottle  of 
perfume  that  smells  like  nothing 
you’ve  ever  smelled  before.  Take  a 
quick  bath  in  it,  and  it’ll  make  you 

39 


smell  like  a man  of  Kamm.” 
Zorrel  started.  “So  that’s  it!” 
“That  is  it.  Once  you  are  smell- 
ing properly,  get  down  into  the 
camp  in  the  south  valley,  and 
snoop  around  among  the  carts  to 
see  if  the  Duke  Two  Fingers  acci- 
dentally used  ours  for  his  trip  north. 
I don’t  think  anyone  will  question 
what  a priest  does.  If  you  find  the 
transmitter,  tell  Headquarters  to 
call  the  whole  thing  off.  We’ll  fill 
them  in  later.” 

“What  are  you  going  to  do?” 
“Finish  our  assignment.  And 
you’d  better  trade  stun-guns  with 
me.  Mine  is  low.” 

Zorrel  slipped  the  cord  over  his 
head,  and  handed  the  hand-carved 
Holy  Bird  to  Hilford.  “If  you’re 
going  back  in  there,  you’ll  ne^  it.” 
He  took  Hilford’s  gun,  and  disap- 
peared into  the  trees. 

Hilford  chose  his  position  care- 
fully. He  had  to  be  invisible,  and 
yet  have  a clear  field  of  vision 
himself.  He  searched  along  the 
path,  and  finally  settled  down  in 
a cluster  of  bushes  ten  feet  from 
the  trail.  He  did  not  know  how 
long  he  would  have  to  wait.  He 
was  thirsty  and  hungry,  and  weary 
from  lack  of  sleep.  He  hoped  he 
could  hold  out. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  two  hours. 
He  fought  to  keep  awake  in  the 
dreary  silence.  Suddenly  he  saw  a 
flash  of  movement.  A file  of  black- 
robed  priests  came  into  view.  The 
Duke  Two  Fingers  walked  haughti- 
ly across  his  field  of  vision.  Hilford 
knelt  and  trained  his  stun-gun  on 
the  path.  The  procession  was  mov- 
ing rapidly,  and  he  would  only  have 


a fraction  of  a second. 

More  priests  passed,  and  sudden- 
ly Hilford  saw  the  thing  he  was 
waiting  for.  A cage,  towering  gro- 
tesquely on  the  mountain  path.  It 
was  all  of  eight  feet  tall,  and  black 
cloth  was  draped  inside  the  bars, 
with  a foot  of  air  sp>ace  left  at  top 
and  bottom.  Two  black-robed 
priests  strained  under  its  weight  at 
each  comer. 

As  Hilford  took  in  these  details 
his  finger  closed  instinctively  on  the 
trigger.  A focused  beam  at  full 
power,  from  a distance  of  ten  feet, 
would  kill  or  permanently  disable 
a man.  It  would  certainly  kill  a 
bird. 

And  as  the  cage  passed  from  his 
view  there  was  a convulsive  flutter, 
and  a Holy  Bird  of  Kamm  tum- 
bled to  the  floor  of  the  cage. 

Consternation  followed.  The 
priests  set  down  the  cage,  opened 
it,  and  tenderly  lifted  out  the  Bird. 
Terror  and  uncertainty  gripped 
their  faces.  The  Duke  Two  Fingers 
came  charging  back  up  the  trail. 
Other  black-robed  dukes  came  for- 
ward, pushing  their  way  through 
the  excited  crowd  of  priests.  Hil- 
ford sensed  that  a furious  argument 
was  under  way,  but  the  fluttering 
fingers  were  concealed  from  him. 
The  High  Priest  strode  anxiously 
down  the  trail,  and  disappeared 
into  the  crowd. 

Hilford  held  his  position,  and 
waited.  The  procession  finally 
turned,  assumed  a semblance  of 
order,  and  marched  back  up  the 
mountain  towards  the  Temple  of 
the  Bird. 

Hilford  followed  at  a safe  dis- 
tance, and  accosted  one  of  the  sen- 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


40 


tries  at  the  entrance  to  the  Temple. 
“What  was  all  the  excitement 
about?” 

The  sentry  wore  a dazed  expres- 
sion. “The  Bird  is  dead!  The 
Keeper  of  the  Bird  is  deposed!” 

Hilford  confidently  reentered  the 
Temple,  and  moved  through  the 
corridors  at  as  fast  a pace  as  was 
consistent  with  the  dignity  of  his 
black  robes.  He  found  the  corridor 
where  the  prisoners  were  confined, 
and  opened  the  fifth  door. 

There  were  only  four  men  in  the 
room,  since  Hilford  and  Zorrel 
had  escaped.  They  sprang  to  their 
feet  and  stood  humbly  at  attention. 

“Which  one  of  you  would  like  to 
escape?”  Hilford  demanded. 

They  stared  at  him  dumbly. 

He  picked  the  youngest  one, 
pulled  the  bright  cape  from  his 
shoulders,  and  clothed  him  in  the 
stolen  black  garments.  “Bar  the 
door  as  you  go  out,”  he  said.  “If 
you  wander  around  long  enough, 
you  should  find  the  exit.  Good 
luck!” 

The  amazed  man  darted  out, 
and  they  saw  him  shove  the  bar 
into  place. 

One  of  the  other  prisoners  sud- 
denly recognized  Hilford.  “You 
killed  the  priests!”  he  said,  his  fin- 
gers trembling  with  excitement. 

Hilford  dropped  onto  a straw- 
padded  bunk.  “Aren’t  you  grate- 
ful?” he  asked.  He  was  thoroughly 
exhausted.  He  twisted  uncomfort- 
ably, and  drifted  off  to  sleep. 


He  was  awakened  abruptly, 
and  herded  into  the  corridor 
with  the  other  prisoners.  The  two 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


lines  were  formed,  and  they 
marched  back  along  the  winding 
passageways,  to  the  room  that 
opened  into  the  arena.  The  scene 
was  much  the  same  as  it  had  been 
before,  but  with  a significant  differ- 
ence. The  royal  box  of  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers  was  dark.  The  door 
under  his  box  remained  closed.  He 
had  allowed  a Holy  Bii'd  to  die,  and 
he  was  disqualified. 

The  bewildered  prisoners  were 
backed  against  the  wall  for  num- 
bering. The  High  Priest  entered 
stormily,  and  seized  the  metal  jar. 
At  that  moment  a prisoner  from 
Hilford’s  room  stepped  forward, 
and  pointed  at  Hilford. 

“Him — he’s  the  one  that  killed 
the  Holy  Priests!” 

The  High  Priest  whirled  on  Hil- 
ford, stepped  close,  sniffed  doubt- 
fully. 

“No,”  he  signaled. 

The  prisoner  gestured  excitedly. 
“He  escaped,  and  then  he  came 
back  wearing  a black  robe.” 

The  High  Priest  stared,  coldly  at 
Hilford.  “Take  off  his  shoes,”  he 
said  finally.  The  High  Priest  studied 
his  five-toed  feet  incredulously. 
“Take  him  first,”  he  said.  The  in- 
formant grinned  broadly,  and  froze 
in  terror  a moment  later  when  the 
High  Priest  gave  him  his  reward  by 
adding,  “And  take  him  second.” 
Hilford  was  quickly  stripped. 
Hands  clutched  at  his  carving  of 
the  Holy  Bird,  and  he  clasp>ed  it  to 
him  protectingly.  The  High  Priest 
stepped  forward,  saw  what  it  was, 
and  sneered.  “Let  him  have  it!” 
Hilford  was  shoved  into  the  cage, 
and  priests  began  pushing  it  into 
the  arena. 

41 


Birds  flapped  excitedly  far  above, 
and  several  dove  on  the  priests  and 
veered  off.  Hilford  waited  calmly 
in  the  center  of  the  arena  while  the 
priests  hurried  away.  He  set  his 
stun-gun  at  low  intensity,  with  the 
broadest  beam  the  small  gun  could 
supply.  It  might  be  fatal  to  kill  a 
Bird,  he  knew;  and  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  fatal  if  he  did  not  keep 
them  away.  If  his  first  setting  was 
not  the  right  one,  he  might  not 
have  a chance  to  adjust  it. 

The  cage  jerked  upwards. 

He  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
arena,  pivoting  slowly,  with  both 
hands  extended  above  his  head. 
One  hand  grasped  the  stun-gun. 
His  posture  was  that  of  one  invok- 
ing the  gods.  His  audience  was 
about  to  witness  a miracle,  and  it 
would  be  best  for  Hilford  if  some- 
how it  got  the  idea  that  it  was  a 
Holy  Miracle. 

The  first  Bird  plummeted  down- 
wards, struck  the  gun’s  beam,  and 
fluttered  comically  away.  Another 
came  close  enough  to  receive  a 
vague  shock,  and  circled  warily. 
Then  there  was  a sudden  rush,  and 
the  air  above  him  was  filled  with 
beating  wings. 

He  continued  to  pivot,  and  a sud- 
den wave  of  dizziness  came  over 
him.  His  head  throbbed  painfully. 
He  staggered,  nearly  fell,  and  be- 
gan to  edge  towards  the  side  of  the 
arena.  A Bird  came  at  him  from  the 
rear  at  arm  level,  underneath  the 
beam.  Hilford’s  blurring  vision 
caught  it  just  in  time.  He  tilted  the 
gun,  and  the  Bird  dropped  to  the 
floor  of  the  arena,  shuddered,  and 
waddled  away  with  its  wings  trail- 
ing helplessly.  Hilford  resumed  his 


wavering  pivot,  and  saw  it  flap  into 
the  air  again. 

He  was  twenty  feet  from  the  wall 
of  the  arena,  close  enough  to  see 
the  face  of  a duke  who  looked 
down  on  him  hopefully.  But  it  was 
not  the  duke  he  wanted.  Another 
bird  came  at  him  at  arm  level,  but 
circled  back  before  he  could  aim 
the  gun.  The  Birds  were  becoming 
cautious,  and  their  rushes  broke 
off  farther  and  farther  above  him. 
But  his  head  was  a pounding,  tear- 
ing agony,  and  he  sensed  that  he 
was  losing  consciousness.  He  stag- 
gered on,  arms  still  extended  over 
his  head,  passing  one  duke’s  box 
after  another  searching  for  a fa- 
miliar face. 

Suddenly  he  saw  a flash  of  red 
hair.  He  summoned  his  last,  failing 
strength,  dashed  for  the  open  door, 
and  collapsed  as  a priest  swung  it 
shut  behind  him. 

He  was  pulled  to  his  feet,  draped 
in  black  robes,  and  led  up  a flight 
of  stone  steps.  The  Duke  C5ne 
Thumb  stepped  forward  to  greet 
him,  stared  at  his  face  in  open- 
mouthed  astonishment. 

“I  have  kept  my  promise,”  Hil- 
ford told  him,  and  collapsed  again. 

The  duke  helped  him  onto  a 
cushioned  dais,  and  knelt  beside 
him.  His  hands  trembled  with  ex- 
citement. “It  is  a miracle!” 

Hilford  sank  back  weakly.  “We 
must  be  cautious,”  he  said.  “I  do 
not  trust  the  Duke  Two  Fingers.” 

“There’s  nothing  he  can  do  now, 
I must  reward  you.  All  my  daugh- 
ters are  married,  but  perhaps  . . 

“Later,”  Hilford  said.  “The 
Duke  Two  Fingers  . . .” 

Suddenly  solemn,  the  Duke  One 

LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


42 


Thumb  got  to  his  feet.  “We  will 
go  to  the  High  Priest.  He  must 
give  me  my  credentials  and  my 
Bird.” 

Priests  made  up  a respectful  es- 
cort. They  entered  the  sumptuous 
quarters  of  the  High  Priest,  where 
the  walls  were  draped  with  black 
cloth  and  the  furniture  was  plushly 
upholstered  in  black.  The  High 
Priest  was  there,  with  a dozen  lesser 
priests.  The  Duke  Two  Fingers 
faced  him  arguing  fiercely. 

“The  Bird  was  sickly.” 

“The  Bird  was  young,  and  in 
good  health.” 

“Surely  I cannot  be  guilty  of  neg- 
ligence if  it  dies  before  it  reaches 
00 — before  it  is  even  out  of  the 
mountains!” 

Hilford  understood  the  turmoil 
taking  place  behind  the  frosty 
countenance  of  the  High  Priest.  He 
might  circumvent  custom  by  sub- 
terfuge, by  drenching  a prisoner 
with  a repellent  scent,  but  he  could 
not  do  it  openly  without  tearing 
asunder  the  entire  religious  struc- 
ture and  undermining  his  own  po- 
sition. The  priests  knew  the  High 
Priest  was  the  brother  of  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers,  and  they  were  watch- 
ing alertly.  Would  he  dare  to  dis- 
regard the  venerable  tradition  they 
were  all  sworn  to  uphold? 

“The  Bird  was  given  into  your 
position,”  he  said.  “The  law  speaks 
plainly.” 

The  Duke  Two  Fingers  suddenly 
noticed  the  Duke  One  Thumb  and 
his  party,  and  he  whirled  angrily. 
“Yom'  choice  was  not  in  order.  It 
was  made  by  an  alien.  Aliens  are 
not  permitted  in  the  Temple.”  He 
turned  on  the  High  Priest.  “The 

SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


law  speaks  plainly  on  that.  You 
have  brought  aliens  into  the  Tem- 
ple.” 

“I  have  offered  their  lives  to  the 
Birds,  as  is  proper.  The  Birds  alone 
have  decided  the  outcome.” 

Hilford’s  glance  swept  over  the 
black-hooded  men  standing  by  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers,  and  he  praised 
space  for  his  photographic  mem- 
ory. One  face  he  had  seen,  his  first 
day  on  Kamm,  in  the  duke’s  car- 
riage. And  that  face  had  had  ears. 

He  turned  to  the  Duke  One 
Thumb.  “The  Duke  Two  Fingers 
has  brought  aliens  into  the  Tem- 
ple,” he  said.  “The  priest  on  his 
right — remove  his  hood  and  you 
will  see  the  signs.” 

The  little  duke  moved  decisively. 
He  strode  forward,  jerked  the  hood 
from  the  man’s  head,  and  stood 
staring.  Ears! 

No  one  moved.  The  High  Priest’s 
face  was  icily  calm.  “All  present 
will  remove  their  hoods,”  he  said. 

Glittering  weapons  flashed  sud- 
denly, but  a wave  of  priests  over- 
whelmed the  men.  Hoods  were 
ripped  from  the  heads  of  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers’  escort.  Two  more 
pairs  of  ears  were  revealed  to  the 
startled  priests. 

The  High  Priest  turned  slowly, 
and  faced  his  brother.  The  long 
struggle  for  power  between  the  two 
men  blazed  hatefully  in  the  looks 
they  exchanged.  Each  man  had  at- 
tempted to  use  the  other,  and  each 
had  failed.  And  Hilford  guessed 
that  when  the  Duke  Two  Fingers 
had  commenced  his  dealings  with 
the  men  of  Haarn,  he  had  not  taken 
his  brother  into  his  confidence. 

Now  the  brother  had  his  revenge. 

43 


He  stepped  back,  and  his  fingers 
slowly  spelled  out  his  verdict.  “The 
law  speaks  plainly.  The  life  of  an 
outsider  in  the  Temple  belongs  to 
the  Birds.  And  be  he  duke  or  com- 
moner, the  life  of  one  who  willfully 
brings  an  outsider  into  the  Tem- 
ple . . 

The  little  Duke  One  Thumb 
raised  both  hands.  “Only  the  dukes 
pass  judgment  on  the  life  of  a 
duke.” 

The  High  Priest  lost  his  calm- 
ness. He  rushed  at  the  Duke  One 
Thmnb,  his  fingers  screaming  his 
rage.  “In  the  Temple  of  the  Bird 
I am  the  master!” 

“The  law  of  Kamm  does  not  stop 
at  the  door  of  the  Temple,”  the  lit- 
tle duke  said. 

Hilford  watched  tensely.  The 
High  Priest  poured  out  threats  and 
invective.  The  Duke  One  Thumb 
tossed  his  red  head  scornfully,  and 
kept  his  cahn  gaze  on  the  High 
Priest  until  he  turned  away  un- 
easily. “When  will  the  dukes  sit  in 
judgment?”  he  asked. 

“Immediately,”  the  little  duke 
said. 

The  High  Priest  gestured  at  the 
Duke  Two  Fingers.  “Take  him 
away.” 

TTxe  duke  sprang  back,  and  ap- 
pealed to  the  priests.  “I  am  the 
Keeper  of  the  Bird,  Your  oath  is 
sworn  to  me.  I command  you  . . .” 

The  priests  swarmed  over  him, 
and  led  him  away.  The  High  Priest 
pointed  scornfully  at  the  men  of 
Haam.  “Give  them  to  the  Birds.” 

Somehow  Hilford  felt  no  desire 
to  see  the  Duke  Two  Fingers  come 
to  judgment.  He  was  not  certain 
that  he  would  be  admitted,  so  he 


followed  along  after  the  men  of 
Haarn.  They  were  thrust  into  the 
arena  without  ceremony.  They  were 
not  even  stripped.  For  a few  min- 
utes they  milled  about  confusedly, 
looking  vainly  at  the  closed  doors 
that  ringed  the  arena.  As  the  first 
Birds  descended  upon  them  one 
slipped  out  of  his  robes  and 
whipped  them  through  the  air.  The 
action  startled  the  Birds,  and  they 
circled  warily. 

They  quickly  regained  their  con- 
fidence, and  as  they  circled  closer 
strange  things  happened  to  the  men 
of  Haarn.  They  collapsed  and 
groveled  on  the  bare  rock  floor. 
Their  hands  tore  futilely  at  the 
smooth  surface.  Blood  spurted  from 
their  ears,  and  their  arms  and  1^ 
flailed  weakly  and  were  still.  Hfl- 
ford  wearily  turned  away  from  the 
sickening  ripping  of  talons.  His  as- 
signment was  completed.  He  had 
identified  the  KLammian  secret 
weapon. 


At  the  Federation  Base  on 
L Kanun’s  largest  moon,  Hil- 
ford was  finishing  his  report.  “Fol- 
lowing the  execution  of  the  Duke 
Two  Fingers,  his  nephew  was  in- 
stalled as  ruler  of  the  Flat  Prov- 
ince. He  is  an  intelligent  and  con- 
scientious young  man,  and  he 
should  make  an  excellent  duke.  No 
more  agents  of  Haam  have  been 
discovered,  and  we  doubt  that  there 
are  more.  Men  with  ears  would 
find  it  difficult  to  hide  on  Kamm. 
The  new  Keeper  of  the  Bird  is  an 
honest  and  courageous  man  with 
an  instinct  for  leadership.  He  has 
the  complete  support  of  the  Sea- 


44 


LLOYD  BIGGLE,  JR. 


men’s  League,  and  he  will  welcome 
advisors  from  the  Federation.  The 
next  five  years  should  see  a dra- 
matic change  of  direction  in  the 
history  of  Kamm.” 

Hilford  seated  himself,  and  in- 
dulged in  a fit  of  coughing.  The 
unaccustomed  vocal  exercise  had 
sadly  irritated  his  throat.  He  leaned 
back  and  studied  the  faces  before 
him — the  military  brass,  the  diplo- 
matic brass,  the  intelligence  brass. 

The  diplomatic  brass  spoke  first, 
and  Hilford  fumbled  for  a com- 
municator, turned  up  the  volume, 
and  listened. 

“I  move  that  we  commend  Spe- 
cial Agent  Hilford  for  an  excellent 
piece  of  work.” 

An  agitated  Admiral  Lantz 
leaped  to  his  feet,  his  scholarly  face 
flushed  with  excitement.  “The  se- 
cret weapon!  You  didn’t  mention 
the  secret  weapon!” 

“That  calls  for  a special  report,” 
Hilford  said.  “Zorrel?” 

The  young  agent  hurried  out, 
and  returned  with  some  scientific 
apparatus  which  the  distinguished 
audience  eyed  suspiciously. 

“I’ve  recorded  some  bird  talk 
from  the  Kammian  Holy  Bird,” 
Hilford  said.  “Would  you  like  to 
hear  it?” 

The  muttered  assent  did  not 
reach  him  through  the  communi- 
cator. He  asked  again,  and  Admiral 
Lantz  bellowed,  “Yes!” 

“I’ll  let  you  hear  it  for  exactly 
five  seconds.  And  please  note — this 
is  an  oscillograph.  It  gives  us  a pic- 
ture of  sound  waves.  You  can  listen 
to  this  sound  and  watch  it  at  the 
same  time.” 

He  stood  with  a stop  watch  in 
SILENCE  IS  DEADLY 


his  hand,  and  Zorrel  turned  off  the 
machine  when  he  signaled. 

“I  didn’t  hear  a thing,”  the  ad- 
miral called.  “And  that  line  never 
moved.  There’s  nothing  there  but 
silence.” 

“Ah!  Remember — Kamm  is  the 
silent  planet.  This  is  silent  bird 
talk.” 

The  admiral  got  to  his  feet  with 
the  air  of  one  about  to  stomp  out, 
and  was  hauled  back  into  place  by 
another  admiral.  Ernst  Wilkes 
called  to  Hilford,  “Go  on,  please.” 
The  Sector  Chief  of  Intelligence 
looked  amused. 

“I  promise  you,  gentlemen,”  Hil- 
ford said  politely,  “that  this  is  the 
deadliest  silence  in  the  universe. 
We’ll  wait  five  minutes,  and  then 
I’ll  give  you  step  two.” 

While  they  waited,  Zorrel  ad- 
justed the  oscillograph.  He  darted 
to  the  door  and  led  in  a giant  griff 
hound,  conveniently  borrowed  from 
a sentry. 

“In  the  first  test,”  Hilford  said, 
“the  oscillograph  was  set  to  register 
sounds  within  the  normal  range  of 
human  hearing — roughly  up  to 
25,000  cycles.  Now  I’ll  move  the 
upper  limit  as  far  as  it  will  go. 
Watch  again,  for  five  seconds.” 

The  line  on  the  oscillograph  sud- 
denly twisted  convulsively.  At  the 
same  time  Hilford  was  flung  to  the 
floor  as  the  dog  dashed  against  him 
in  a frantic  effort  to  escape.  iZorrel 
leaped  to  switch  off  the  machine, 
and  the  dog  crept  under  a table 
and  howled  mournfully. 

“You  see,  gentlemen,”  Hilford 
said,  “how  deadly  that  silence  is. 
The  dog  can  hear  it — or  part  of  it. 
You  can’t  hear  a thing,  but  all  the 

45 


same  you  are  being  bombarded 
with  a peculiarly  oscillating  sound 
wave  of  a murderous  intensity. 
With  that  machine  at  normal  vol- 
ume, every  person  in  this  room 
would  be  dead  within  a minute — 
except  Zorrel  and  I,  because  we 
have  no  ears  at  the  moment.  And 
we’d  be  acutely  uncomfortable. 

“The  Holy  Bird  is  a legendary 
monster  on  Kamm,  for  good  rea- 
son. Folklore  claims  that  the  birds 
once  ruled  the  planet,  and  it  may 
be  right.  Somewhere  back  in  the 
dim  mists  of  antiquity  those  birds 
began  to  develop  a peculiar  method 
of  catching  their  prey,  and  as  their 
power  developed  it  had  a tremen- 
dous impact  on  the  entire  course  of 
evolution  on  Kamm.  Their  prey 
had  to  evolve  also,  or  become  ex- 
tinct. That  was  the  course  of  Kam- 
mian  evolution.  The  birds  devel- 
oped more  power,  their  prey  de- 
veloped more  immunity.  Finally 
the  birds  became  all-powerful,  and 
their  prey  became  completely  im- 
mune. Man  adapted  to  the  birds  by 
losing  his  hearing,  and  eventually, 
his  ears.  And  when  his  hearing  was 
gone  and  he  became  the  ruling 
species  on  the  planet,  he  continued 
to  fear  the  birds.  He  captured 
them,  and  worshipped  them.” 
There  was  a long  silence,  inter- 
rupted by  Wilkes.  “What  happened 
to  the  trade  commissioners?” 

“We  can  only  guess.  By  accident 
or  on  purpose,  the  Ehike  Two 
Fingers  exposed  them  to  his  private 


bird.  He  was  probably  shocked  him- 
self, at  what  happened,  and  be- 
cause he  feared  the  Federation  he 
had  the  bodies  dumped  into  the 
street.  And  now,  if  no  one  wants  to 
hear  it  again,  2^rrel  will  erase  the 
bird  talk.  We  don’t  want  an  inno- 
cent technician  committing  suicide 
by  accident.  When  does  my  leave 
start?” 

“Immediately,”  Wilkes  said. 
“Two  months.” 

“You  promised  me  six  months.” 
“I  can’t  spare  you  for  six  months. 
Where  do  you  want  to  go?  Some 
nice  quiet  resort?” 

“I  want  my  ears  back,”  Hilford 
said.  “And  then  I’m  going  to  spend 
ail  six  months  in  the  aft  cabin  of  a 
space  tug,  listening  to  the  engines.” 
A diplomat  waved  his  arm  anx- 
iously. “What  about  the  future  of 
Kanm?” 

Hilford  was  suddenly  serious. 
“The  Kammians  don’t  realize  it, 
but  normal  men  could  never  in- 
vade Kamm.  One  Holy  Bird, 
turned  loose  in  an  enemy  camp  at 
night,  could  wipe  out  an  army. 
Even  if  an  invader  attempted  to  kill 
all  the  birds,  he  could  never  be 
certain  that  there  wasn’t  one  left, 
and  one  would  be  enough.  Aliens 
will  live  on  Kamm  only  with  the 
gracious  permission  of  the  natives. 
The  future  of  Kamm  is  definitely 
for  Kammians.  Or,  to  put  it  an- 
other way — he  grinned  broadly 
“ — that  planet  is  for  the  birds!” 

END 


The  scientific  humanist  doesn’t  pretend  that  every  experience 
of  life  can  be  forced  into  a test  tube  or  that  every  interest  can 
be  weighed  on  scales.  He  knows  that  something  in  everything 
always  escapes  the  technique  of  measurement.  — Max  Otto 

46 


what  Is  Your  Science  I.  Q.? 

THIS  QUIZ  is  guaranteed  to  test  your  knowledge  of  daily 

science  as  well  as  facts  you  often  read  about  in  science  fiction. 

Count  5 for  each  correct  answer.  You  should  score  65.  Over  85 

makes  you  a whiz.  Answers  on  page  119. 

1.  What  have  viruses  and  ricksettias  in  common? 

2.  A perfect  number  is  one  which  is  the  sum  of  all  the  numbers 
which  divide  it  except  itself.  Name  the  first  two. 

3.  What  part  of  a plant  acts  as  a “photobattery”? 

4.  Which  of  the  body’s  waste  products  is  reused  by  the  body? 

5.  What  everyday  substance  can  be  used  to  replace  quartz  as 
a light  polarizing  part  of  a microscope? 

6.  What  have  tsunamis  and  seiching  in  common? 

7.  What  three  kinds  of  nuclear  reactions  are  now  known? 

8.  What  element  is  produced  by  the  decaying  of  potassium  40? 

9.  How  many  first  magnitude  stars  can  be  seen  from  the  north- 
ern hemisphere? 

10.  In  walking  at  ordinary  speed,  how  fast  does  the  moving 
foot  pass  the  stationary  one? 

1 1 . Name  six  of  the  eight  trace  elements  which  play  a vital  role 
in  the  health  of  the  human  body. 

12.  What  current  in  the  South  Atlantic  is  similar  to  the  Gulf 
Stream  in  the  North  Atlantic? 

13.  Energy  for  photosynthesis  in  plants  is  obtained  chiefly  from 
which  jjortions  of  the  visible  spectrum? 

14.  Kinetin  is  the  name  of  the  chemical  in  the  human  body  that 

causes  . 

15.  If  you  reduced  the  volume  of  a sound  by  adding  more  sound, 
what  phenomenon  of  sound  would  you  be  using? 

16.  What  are  the  four  kinds  of  stresses? 

17.  According  to  biology,  which  chromosomes  produce  males  in 
a fertilized  egg? 

18.  What  have  the  temperatures  -273.1  G and  -459.6  F in  com- 
mon? 

19.  How  many  times  could  a ray  of  light  circle  the  equator  in 
one  second? 

20.  In  reference  to  the  theory  of  prime  numbers,  what  is  the 
peculiarity  of  the  number  two? 


47 


T he  hunters  were  necessary y of 


course — but  there  was  the 


other  side  of  the  picture  too. 


The  first  of  the  morons,  as  they 
were  popularly  called,  though  they 
were  totally  lacking  in  intelligence, 
were  horn  in  1971,  eleven  years 
after  the  Mutual  Retaliation  phase 
of  the  big  war-that-no-one-started, 
the  majority  of  them  near  the  big, 
bombed-out  cities.  By  1973,  with 
the  aid  of  the  electron  microscope, 
the  scientists  had  learned  all  about 
it.  Parents  and  offspring  were  steri- 


GAME 


Illustrated  by  Ed  Emsh 


lized  and  the  offspring  placed  in 
state  institutions.  By  1983  there 
were  too  many  of  them.  A new 
solution  to  the  impossible  situation 
was  tried,  large  isolated  areas  in  the 
south  where  the  climate  was  mild 
were  made  into  preserves  for  them. 
In  the  wilds  the  morons  handed 
into  small  herds  that  showed  no  in- 
clination  to  roam.  By  1985  no  more 
of  the  morons  were  being  horn. 


thanks  to  the  sterilization  of  all 
parents  carrying  the  contaminated 
gene.  It  was  thought  the  problem 
was  permanently  solved,  through 
perfect  cooperation  between  sci- 
ence, the  government,  and  the  pub- 
lic. If  the  contamination  had  not 
been  weeded  out  of  the  race  one 
fourth  of  every  generation  for  all 
the  future  would  have  been  with- 
out any  intelligence  whatever. 


PRESERVE 


But  here  and  there  had  been 
natural  births,  unattended  by  a doc- 
tor; and  parental  love  coupled 
with  fear  of  being  sterilized  and 
thus  denied  further  parenthood  had 
brought  into  existence  a few  thou- 
sand unsterilized  morons,  hidden 
away  in  attic  rooms  or  in  base- 
ments. And  to  these  parents  the 
Preserves  offered  the  logical  solu- 
tion too — drive  into  the  nearest 
Preserve  and  turn  the  child  loose 
with  its  kind.  Thus,  a new  genera- 
tion came  into  being  in  the  scat- 
tered herds,  and  by  2010  A.D,  a 
new  problem  had  come  into  being. 
Thanks  to  impurities  in  the  moron 
strain  or  to  wandering  renegades — 
or  both — a few  normally  intelligent 
offspring  were  appearing  in  the 
herds.  There  was  danger  of  these 
recontaminating  the  race,  if  they 
left  the  herds,  learned  to  speak, 
wear  clothes  . . , 

In  2010  the  government  at- 
tempted a mass  sterilization  of  the 
herds  but  the  herds  were  too  wild 
by  now,  and  the  males  too  danger- 
ous, so  the  sterilization  program 
was  abandoned  and  a new  plan 
substituted.  The  government  Hunt- 
ers came  into  being,  small  patrol 
groups  whose  job  was  to  pick  off 
the  renegades  and  any  members  of 
the  herds  that  were  intelligent. 


66TJI.HI.HI!”  Big  One  shouted, 

JLl  and  heaved  erect  with  the 
front  end  of  It. 

“Hi-hi-hi,”  Fat  One  and  the 
dozen  others  echoed  more  mildly, 
lifting  wherever  they  could  get  a 
hold  on  It. 

It  was  lifted  and  borne  forward 
50 


in  a half  crouching  trot. 

“Hi-hi  hi-hi-hihihi,”  Elf  chanted, 
running  and  skipping  alongside  tljie 
panting  men  and  their  massive 
burden. 

It  was  carried  forward  through 
the  lush  grass  for  perhaps  fifty  feet. 

“Ah-ah-ah,”  Big  One  sighed 
loudly,  slowly  letting  the  front  end 
of  It  down  until  it  dug  into  the  soft 
black  soil. 

“Ahhh,”  Fat  One  and  the  others 
sighed,  letting  go  and  standing  up, 
stretching  aching  back  muscles, 
rubbing  cramped  hands. 

“Ah-ah-ah-^-ah-ah,”  Elf  sang, 
running  around  and  in  between 
the  resting  men.  He  came  too  close 
to  Big  One  and  was  sent  sprawling 
by  a quick,  good  humored  push. 

Everyone  laughed.  Big  One 
laughing  the  loudest.  Then  Big  One 
lifted  Elf  to  his  feet  and  patted 
him  on  the  back  affectionately,  a 
broad  grin  forming  a toothy  gap 
at  the  top  of  his  bushy  black  beard. 

Elf  answered  the  grin  with  one 
of  his  own,  and  at  that  moment  his 
ever  present  yearning  to  grow  up  to 
be  the  biggest  and  the  strongest 
like  Big  One  flowed  through  him 
with  new  strength. 

Abruptly  Big  One  leaped  to  the 
front  end  of  It,  shouting  “Hi-hi- 
HI!” 

“Hi-hi-hi,”  the  others  echoed, 
scrambling  to  their  places.  Once 
again  It  was  borne  forward  for 
fifty  feet — and  again  and  again, 
across  the  broad  meadowland. 

A vast  matting  of  blackberry 
brambles  came  into  view  off  to  one 
side.  Big  One  veered  his  course  to- 
ward it.  The  going  was  uphill  now, 
so  the  forward  surges  shortened  to 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


forty  feet,  then  thirty.  By  the  time 
they  reached  the  blackberries  they 
were  wet  and  glossy  with  sweat. 

It  was  a healthy  patch,  loaded 
with  large  ripe  berries.  The  men 
ate  hungrily  at  first,  then  more 
leisurely,  pointing  to  one  another’s 
stained  beards  and  laughing.  As 
they  denuded  one  area  they  leaped 
to  It,  carried  it  another  ten  feet, 
and  started  stripping  another  sec- 
tion, never  getting  more  than  a few 
feet  from  It. 

Elf  picked  his  blackberries  with 
first  one  then  another  of  the  men. 
When  his  hunger  was  satisfied  he 
became  mischievous,  picking  a 
handful  of  berries  and  squashing 
them  against  the  back  or  the  chest 
of  the  nearest  man  and  running 
away,  laughing.  It  was  dangerous 
sport,  he  knew,  because  if  one  of 
them  caught  him  he  would  be 
tossed  into  the  brambles. 

Eventually  they  all  had  their  fill, 
and  thanks  to  Elf  looked  as  though 
they  were  oozing  blackberry  juice 
from  every  pore.  The  sun  was  in 
its  mid-aftemoon  position.  In  the 
distance  a line  of  white-barked 
trees  could  be  seen — evidence  of  a 
stream. 

“Hi-hi-hi!”  Big  One  shouted. 

The  journey  toward  the  trees  be- 
gan. It  was  mostly  downhill,  so  the 
forward  spurts  were  often  as  much 
as  a hundred  feet. 

Before  they  could  hear  the  water 
they  could  smell  it.  They  grunted 
their  delight  at  the  smell,  a rich 
fish  odor  betokening  plenty  of  food. 
Intermingled  with  this  odor  was 
the  spicy  scent  of  eucalyptus. 

They  pushed  forward  with  re- 
newed zeal  so  that  the  sweat  ran 


down  their  skins,  dissolving  the 
berry  juices  and  making  rivulets 
that  looked  like  purple  blood. 

When  less  than  a hundred  yards 
from  the  stream,  which  was  still 
hidden  beyond  the  tall  grasses  and 
the  trees  lining  its  bank,  they  heard 
the  sound  of  voices,  high  pitched — 
women’s  voices.  They  became  un- 
easy and  nervous.  Their  surges  for- 
ward shortened  to  ten  feet,  their 
rest  periods  became  longer,  they 
searched  worriedly  for  signs  of  mo- 
tion through  the  trees. 

They  changed  their  course  to 
arrive  a hundred  yards  down- 
stream from  the  source  of  the  wom- 
en’s voices.  Soon  they  reached  the 
edge  of  the  tree  belt.  It  was  more 
difficult  to  carry  It  through  the 
scatterings  of  bushes.  Too,  they 
would  get  part  way  through  the 
trees  and  run  into  trees  too  close 
together  to  get  It  past  them,  and 
have  to  back  out  and  try  another 
place.  It  took  almost  two  hours 
to  work  through  the  trees  to  the 
bank  of  the  stream. 

Only  Elf  recognized  the  place 
they  finally  broke  through  as  the 
place  they  had  left  more  than  two 
days  before.  In  that  respect  he 
knew  he  was  different,  not  only 
from  Big  One  and  other  grownups, 
but  also  all  other  Elfs  except  one, 
a girl  Elf.  He  had  known  it  as 
long  as  he  could  remember.  He 
had  learned  it  from  many  little 
things.  For  example,  he  had  rec- 
ognized the  place  when  they 
reached  it.  Big  One  and  the  others 
never  remembered  anything  for 
long.  In  getting  It  through  the 
trees  they  blundered  as  they  al- 
ways had,  and  got  through  by  trial 


GAME  PRESERVE 


51 


and  error  with  no  memory  of  past 
blunderings. 

Elf  was  different  in  another  way, 
too.  He  could  make  more  sounds 
than  the  others.  Sometimes  he 
would  keep  a little  It  with  him  un- 
til it  gave  him  a feeling  of  security 
almost  as  strong  as  the  big  It,  then 
wander  off  alone  with  It  and  play 
with  making  sounds.  “Bz-bz.  Walla- 
walla-walla-rue-rue-la-lo-hi.  Da !” 
and  all  kinds  of  sounds.  It  excited 
him  to  be  able  to  make  different 
sounds  and  put  them  together  so 
that  they  pleased  his  hearing,  but 
such  sounds  made  the  others  avoid 
him  and  look  at  him  from  a safe 
distance,  with  worried  expressions, 
so  he  had  learned  not  to  make 
different  sounds  within  earshot  of 
the  others. 

The  women  and  Elfs  were  up- 
stream a hundred  yards,  where 
they  always  remained.  From  the 
way  they  were  milling  around  and 
acting  alarmed  it  was  evident  to 
Elf  they  could  no  more  remember 
the  men  having  been  here  a few 
days  before  than  the  men  could 
remember  it  themselves.  It  would 
be  two  or  three  days  before  they 
slowly  lost  their  fear  of  one  an- 
other; It  would  be  the  women  and 
their  Elfs  who  would  cautiously  ap- 
proach, holding  their  portable  Its 
clutched  for  security,  until,  finally 
losing  all  fear,  they  would  join  into 
one  big  group  for  a while. 

Big  One  and  the  others  carried 
It  right  to  the  water’s  edge  so  they 
could  get  into  the  water  without 
ever  being  far  from  It.  They  shiv- 
ered and  shouted  excitedly  as  they 
bathed.  Fat  One  screamed  with  de- 

52 


light  as  he  held  a squirming  fish 
up  for  the  others  to  see.  He  bit 
into  it  with  strong  white  teeth,  wa- 
ter dripping  from  his  heavy  brown 
beard.  Renewed  hunger  possessed 
him.  He  gobbled  the  fish  and  be- 
gan searching  for  another.  He  al- 
ways caught  two  fish  for  any  other 
man’s  one,  which  was  why  he  was 
fat. 

Elf  himself  caught  a fish.  After 
eating  it  he  lay  on  the  grassy  bank 
looking  up  at  the  white  billowing 
clouds  in  the  blue  sky.  The  sun 
was  now  near  the  horizon,  half  hid- 
den behind  a cloud,  sending  diver- 
gent ramps  of  light  downward.  The 
clouds  on  the  western  horizon  were 
slowly  taking  on  color  until  red, 
orange,  and  green  separated  into 
definite  areas.  The  soft  murmur  of 
the  stream  formed  a lazy  back- 
ground to  the  excited  voices  of  the 
men.  From  upstream,  faintly,  drift- 
ed the  woman  and  Elf  sounds. 

Here,  close  to  the  ground,  the 
rich  earthy  smell  was  stronger  than 
that  of  the  stream.  After  a time  a 
slight  breeze  sprang  up,  bringing 
with  it  other  odors,  that  of  distant 
pines,  the  pungent  eucalyptus,  a 
musky  animal  scent. 

Big  One  and  the  others  were  out 
of  the  water,  finally.  Half  asleep. 
Elf  watched  them  move  It  up  to 
dry  ground.  As  though  that  were 
what  the  sun  had  been  waiting  for, 
it  sank  rapidly  below  the  horizon. 

The  clouds  where  the  sun  had 
been  seemed  now  to  blaze  for  a 
time  with  a smoldering  redness  that 
cooled  to  black.  The  stars  came 
out,  one  by  one. 

A multitude  of  snorings  erupted 
into  the  night.  Elf  crept  among  the 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


sleeping  forms  until  he  found  Big 
One,  and  settled  down  for  the 
night,  his  head  against  Big  One’s 
chest,  his  right  hand  resting  against 
the  cool  smooth  metal  of  It. 


Elf  awoke  with  the  bright 
morning  sun  directly  in  his 
eyes.  Big  One  was  gone,  already 
wading  in  the  stream  after  fish. 
Some  of  the  others  were  with  him. 
A few  were  still  sleeping. 

Elf  leaped  to  his  feet,  paused  to 
stretch  elaborately,  then  splashed 
into  the  stream.  As  soon  as  he 
caught  a fish  he  climbed  out  onto 
the  bank  and  ate  it.  Then  he  turned 
to  his  search  for  a little  It.  There 
were  many  lying  around,  all  exactly 
alike.  He  studied  several,  not  touch- 
ing some,  touching  and  even  nudg- 
ing others.  Since  they  all  looked 
alike  it  was  more  a matter  of  feel 
than  any  real  difference  that  he 
looked  for.  One  and  only  one 
seemed  to  be  the  It.  Elf  returned 
his  attention  to  it  several  times. 

Finally  he  picked  it  up  and  car- 
ried it  over  to  the  big  It,  and  hid  it 
underneath.  Big  One,  with  shouts 
of  sheer  exuberance,  climbed  up 
onto  the  bank  dripping  water.  He 
grinned  at  Elf. 

Elf  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
women  and  other  Elfs.  Some  of 
them  were  wandering  in  his  direc- 
tion, each  carrying  an  It  of  some 
sort,  many  of  them  similar  to  the 
one  he  had  chosen. 

In  sudden  alaim  at  the  thought 
that  someone  might  steal  his  new 
It,  Elf  rescued  it  from  its  hiding 
place.  He  tiied  to  hide  it  behind 
him  when  any  of  the  men  looked 

GAME  PRESERVE 


his  way.  They  scorned  an  individu- 
al It  and,  as  men,  preferred  an  It 
too  heavy  for  one  person. 

As  the  day  advanced,  women 
and  Elfs  approached  nearer,  pre- 
tending to  be  unaware  at  times  that 
the  men  were  here,  at  other  times 
openly  fleeing  back,  overcome  by 
p^nic. 

The  men  never  went  farther  than 
twenty  feet  from  the  big  It.  But  as 
the  women  came  closer  the  men 
grew  surly  toward  one  another.  By 
noon  two  of  them  were  trying  to 
pick  a fight  with  anyone  who  would 
stand  up  to  them. 

Elf  clutched  his  little  It  closely 
and  moved  cautiously  downstream 
until  he  was  twenty  feet  from  the 
big  It.  Tentatively  he  went  another 
few  feet — farther  than  any  of  the 
men  dared  go  from  the  big  It. 
At  first  he  felt  secure,  then  panic 
overcame  him  and  he  ran  back, 
dropping  the  little  It.  He  touched 
the  big  It  until  the  panic  was  gone. 
After  a while  he  went  to  the  little 
It  and  picked  it  up.  He  walked 
around,  carrying  it,  until  he  felt 
secure  with  it  again.  Finally  he 
went  downstream  again,  twenty 
feet,  twenty-five  feet,  thirty  . . . 
He  felt  panic  finally,  but  not  over- 
whelmingly. When  it  became  al- 
most unendurable  he  calmly  turned 
around  and  walked  back. 

Confidence  came  to  him.  An 
hour  later  he  went  downstream 
until  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  big 
It  and  the  men.  Security  seemed  to 
flow  warmly  from  the  little  It. 

Excitement  possessed  Elf.  He  ran 
here  and  there,  clutching  It  closely 
so  as  not  to  drop  it  and  lose  it.  He 
felt  free. 


53 


“BdlboOj”  he  said  aloud,  experi- 
mentally. He  liked  the  sounds. 
“Bdlboo-bdlboo-bdlboo.”  He  saw  a 
berry  bush  ahead  and  ran  to  it  to 
munch  on  the  delicious  fruit.  “Rid- 
dle piddle  biddle,”  he  said.  It 
sounded  nice. 

He  ran  on,  and  after  a time  he 
found  a soft  grassy  spot  and 
stretched  out  on  his  back,  holding 
It  carelessly  in  one  hand.  He  looked 
up  and  up,  at  a layer  of  clouds  go- 
ing in  one  direction  and  another 
layer  above  it  going  in  another  di- 
rection. 

Suddenly  he  heard  voices. 

At  first  he  thought  the  wind  must 
have  changed  so  that  it  was  carry- 
ing the  voices  of  the  men  to  him. 
He  lay  there  listening.  Slowly  he 
realized  these  voices  were  different. 
They  were  putting  sounds  together 
like  those  he  made  himself. 

A sense  of  wonder  possessed  him. 
How  could  there  be  anyone  besides 
himself  who  could  do  that? 

Unafraid,  yet  filled  with  caution, 
he  clutched  It  closely  to  his  chest 
and  stole  in  the  direction  of  the 
sounds. 

After  going  a hundred  yards  he 
saw  signs  of  movement  through  the 
trees.  He  dropped  to  the  ground 
and  lay  still  for  a moment,  then 
gained  courage  to  rise  cautiously, 
ready  to  run.  Stooping  low,  he  stole 
forward  until  he  could  see  several 
moving  figures.  Darting  from  tree 
to  tree  he  moved  closer  to  them, 
listening  with  greater  excitement 
than  he  had  ever  known  to  the 
smoothly  flowing  variety  of  beauti- 
ful sounds  they  were  making. 

This  was  something  new,  a sort 
of  game  they  must  be  playing.  One 

54 


voice  would  make  a string  of  sounds 
then  stop,  another  would  make  a 
string  of  different  sounds  and  stop, 
a third  would  take  it  up.  They 
were  good  at  it,  too. 

But  the  closer  he  got  to  them  the 
more  puzzled  he  became.  They  were 
shaped  somewhat  like  people,  they 
carried  Its,  they  had  hands  and 
faces  like  people.  That’s  as  far  as 
the  similarity  went.  Their  feet  were 
solid,  their  arms,  legs,  and  body 
were  not  skin  at  all  but  strangely 
colored  and  unliving  in  appear- 
ance. Their  faces  were  smooth  like 
women’s,  their  hair  short  like 
babies’,  their  voices  deep  like  men’s. 

And  the  Its  they  carried  were 
unlike  any  Elf  had  ever  seen.  Not 
only  that,  each  of  them  carried 
more  than  one. 

T hat  was  an  idea!  Elf  became  so 
excited  he  almost  forgot  to  keep 
hidden.  If  you  had  more  than  one 
It,  then  if  something  happened  to 
one  you  would  still  feel  secure! 

He  resisted  the  urge  to  return  to 
the  stream  and  search  for  another 
little  It  to  give  him  extra  security. 
If  he  did  that  he  might  never  again 
find  these  creatures  that  were  so 
like  men  and  yet  so  different.  So 
instead,  he  filed  the  idea  away  to 
use  at  the  earliest  opportunity  and 
followed  the  strange  creatures, 
keeping  well  hidden  from  them. 

Soon  Elf  could  hear  the  shouts 
of  the  men  in  the  distance.  From 
the  behavior  of  the  creatures  ahead, 
they  had  heard  those  shouts  too. 
They  changed  their  direction  so  as 
to  reach  the  stream  a hundred 
yards  or  more  downstream  at  about 
the  spot  where  Elf  had  left.  They 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


made  no  voice  sounds  now  that  Elf 
could  hear.  They  clutched  their 
strangely  shaped  long  Its  before 
them  tensely  as  though  feeling 
greater  security  that  way,  their 
heads  turning  this  way  and  that  as 
they  searched  for  any  movement 
ahead. 

They  moved  purposefully.  An 
overwhelming  sense  of  kinship 
brought  tears  to  Elfs  eyes.  These 
creatures  were  his  kind.  Their  dif- 
ferences from  him  were  physical 
and  therefore  superficial,  and  even 
if  those  differences  were  greater  it 
wouldn’t  have  mattered. 

He  wanted,  suddenly,  to  run  to 
them.  But  the  thought  of  it  sent 
fear  through  him.  Also  they  might 
run  in  panic  from  him  if  he  sud- 
denly revealed  himself. 

It  would  have  to  be  a mutual 
aproach,  he  felt.  He  was  used  to 
seeing  them  now.  In  due  time  he 
would  reveal  himself  for  a brief 
moment  to  them.  Later  he  would 
stay  in  the  open  and  watch  them, 
making  no  move  to  approach  until 
they  got  used  to  him  being  around. 
It  might  take  days,  but  eventually, 
he  felt  sure,  he  could  join  them 
without  causing  them  to  panic. 

After  all,  there  had  been  the 
time  when  he  absented  himself 
from  the  men  for  three  whole  days 
and  when  he  returned  they  had 
forgotten  him,  and  his  sudden  ap- 
pearance in  their  midst  had  sent 
even  Big  One  into  spasms  of  fear. 
Unable  to  flee  from  the  security  of 
the  big  It,  and  unable  to  bear  his 
presence  among  them  without  be- 
ing used  to  him,  they  had  all  fallen 
on  the  ground  in  a fit.  He  had  had 
to  retreat  and  wait  until  they  re- 

GAME  PRESERVE 


covered.  Then,  slowly,  he  had  let 
them  get  used  to  his  being  in  sight 
before  approaching  again.  It  had 
taken  two  full  days  to  get  to  the 
point  where  they  would  accept  him 
once  more. 

That  experience.  Elf  felt,  would 
be  valuable  to  remember  now.  He 
wouldn’t  want  to  plunge  these 
creatures  into  fits  or  see  them  scat- 
ter and  run  away. 

Also,  he  was  too  afraid  right  now 
to  reveal  himself  even  though  every 
atom  of  his  being  called  for  their 
companionship. 

Suddenly  he  made  another  im- 
jxDrtant  discovery.  Some  of  the  Its 
these  creatures  carried  had  some- 
thing like  pliable  vines  attached  to 
them  so  they  could  be  hung  about 
the  neck!  The  thought  was  so  stag- 
gering that  Elf  stopped  and  exam- 
ined his  It  to  see  if  that  could  be 
done  to  it.  It  was  twice  as  long  as 
his  hand  and  round  one  way,  taper- 
ing to  a small  end  that  opened  to 
the  hollow  inside.  It  was  too  smooth 
to  hold  with  a pliable  vine  unless — 
He  visualized  pliable  vines  woven 
together  to  hold  It.  He  wasn’t  sure 
how  it  could  be  done,  but  maybe  it 
could. 

He  set  the  idea  aside  for  the  fu- 
ture and  caught  up  with  the  crea- 
tures again,  looking  at  them  with  a 
new  emotion,  awe.  The  ideas  he 
got  just  from  watching  them  were 
so  staggering  he  was  getting  dizzy! 

Anoffier  new  thought  hit  him. 
He  rejected  it  at  once  as  being  too 
fantastic.  It  returned.  Leaves  are 
thin  and  pliable  and  can  be 
wrapped  around  small  objects  like 
pebbles.  Gould  it  be  that  these 
creatures  were  really  men  of  some 

55 


sort,  with  bodies  like  men,  covered 
with  something  thin  like  leaves  are 
thin?  It  was  a new  and  dizzy  height 
in  portable  securities,  and  hardly 
likely.  No.  He  rejected  the  idea 
with  finality  and  turned  his  mind 
to  other  things. 

He  knew  now  where  they  could 
reach  the  stream.  He  decided  to 
circle  them  and  get  ahead  of  them. 
For  the  next  few  minutes  this  oc- 
cupied his  full  attention,  leaving 
no  room  for  crazy  thoughts. 

He  reached  the  stream  and  hid 
behind  some  bushes  where  he 
would  have  a quick  line  of  re- 
treat if  necessary.  He  clutched  It 
tightly  and  waited.  In  a few  mo- 
ments he  saw  the  first  of  the 
creatures  emerge  a hundred  feet 
away.  The  others  soon  joined  the 
first.  Elf  stole  forward  from  con- 
cealment to  concealment  until  he 
was  only  fifteen  feet  from  them. 
His  heart  was  pounding  with  a 
mixture  of  fear  and  excitement. 
His  knuckles  were  white  from 
clutching  It. 

The  creatures  were  still  carry- 
ing on  their  game  of  making  sounds, 
but  now  in  an  amazing  new  way 
that  made  them  barely  audible. 
Elf  listened  to  the  incredibly 
varied  sounds,  enraptured. 

“This  colony  seems  to  have  re- 
mained pure.” 

“You  never  can  tell.” 

“No,  you  never  can  tell.  Get 
out  the  binoculars  and  look,  Joe.” 
“Not  just  yet,  Harold.  I’m  look- 
ing to  see  if  I can  spot  one  whose 
behavior  shows  intelligence.” 

Elf  ached  to  imitate  some  of  the 
beautiful  combinations  of  sounds. 
He  wanted  to  experiment  and  see 

56 


if  he  could  make  the  softly  muted 
voices.  He  had  an  idea  how  it 
might  be  done,  not  make  a noise 
in  your  throat  but  breathe  out  and 
form  the  sounds  with  your  mouth 
just  like  you  were  uttering  them 
aloud. 

One  of  the  creatures  fumbled  at 
an  It  hanging  around  his  neck. 
The  top  of  it  hinged  back.  He 
reached  in  and  brought  out  a 
gleaming  It  and  held  it  so  that  it 
covered  his  eyes.  He  was  facing 
toward  the  men  upstream  and 
stood  up  slowly. 

“See  something,  Joe?” 

Suddenly  Elf  was  afraid.  Was  this 
some  kind  of  magic?  He  had  often 
puzzled  over  the  problem  of 
whether  things  were  there  when  he 
didn’t  look  at  them.  He  had  ex- 
perimented, closing  his  eyes  then 
opening  them  suddenly  to  see  if 
things  were  still  there,  and  they 
always  were;  but  maybe  this  was 
magic  to  make  the  men  not  be 
there.  Elf  waited,  watching  up- 
stream, but  Big  One  and  the  others 
did  not  vanish. 

The  one  called  Joe  chuckled. 
“The  toy  the  adult  males  have 
would  be  a museum  piece  if  it 
were  intact.  A 1960  Ford,  I think. 
Only  one  wheel  on  it,  right  front.” 

Elf’s  attention  jerked  back.  One 
of  the  creatures  was  reaching  over 
his  shoulder,  lifting  on  the  large 
It  fastened  there.  The  top  of  the 
It  pulled  back.  He  reached  inside, 
bringing  out  something  that  made 
Elf  almost  exclaim  aloud.  It  was 
shaped  exactly  like  the  little  It 
Elf  was  carrying,  but  it  glistened  in 
the  sunlight  and  its  interior  was 
filled  with  a richly  brown  fluid. 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


“Anyone  else  want  a coke?” 

“This  used  to  be  a picnic  area,” 
the  one  called  Joe  said,  not  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  binoculars.  “I 
can  see  a lot  of  pop  bottles  lying 
around  in  the  general  area  of  that 
wreck  of  a Ford.” 

While  Elf  watched,  breathless, 
the  creature  reached  inside  the 
skin  of  his  hip  and  brought  out  a 
very  small  It  and  did  something  to 
the  small  end  of  the  hollow  It. 
Putting  the  very  small  It  back  under 
the  skin  of  his  hip,  he  put  the  hol- 
low It  to  his  lips  and  tilted  it. 
Elf  watched  the  brown  liquid  drain 
out.  Here  was  magic.  Such  an  It 
— the  very  one  he  carried — could 
be  filled  with  water  from  the 
stream  and  carried  around  to  drink 
any  time! 

When  the  It  held  no  more  liquid 
the  creature  dropped  it  to  the 
ground.  Elf  could  not  take  his 
eyes  from  it.  He  wanted  it  more 
than  he  had  ever  wanted  anything. 
They  might  forget  it.  Sometimes 
the  women  dropped  their  Its  and 
forgot  them,  picking  up  another 
one  instead,  and  these  creatures 
had  beardless  faces  like  women.  Be- 
sides, each  of  them  carried  so  many 
Its  that  they  would  feel  just  as 
secure  without  this  one. 

So  many  Its!  One  of  the  crea- 
tures held  a flat  white  It  in  one 
hand  and  a very  slim  It  shaped  like 
a straight  section  of  a bush  stem, 
pointed  at  one  end,  with  which  he 
scratched  on  the  white  It  at  times, 
leaving  black  designs. 

“There’ re  fourteen  males,”  the 
one  called  Joe  whispered.  The  other 
wrote  it  down. 

The  way  these  creatures  did 
GAME  PRESERVE 


things.  Elf  decided,  was  very  similar 
to  the  way  Big  One  and  the  other 
men  went  at  moving  the  big  It. 
They  were  very  much  like  men  in 
their  actions,  these  creatures. 

“Eighty-five  or  six  females.” 

“See  any  signs  of  intelligent 
action  yet?” 

“No.  A couple  of  the  males  are 
fighting.  Probably  going  to  be  a 
mating  free-for-all  tomorrow  or 
next  day.  There’s  one!  Just  a 
minute,  1 want  to  make  sure.  It’s 
a little  girl,  maybe  eight  or  nine 
years  old.  Good  forehead.  Her 
eyes  definitely  lack  that  large 
marble-like  quality  of  the  sub- 
moron parent  species.  She’s  in- 
telligent all  right.  She’s  drawing 
something  in  the  sand  with  a stick. 
Give  me  your  rifle,  Bill,  it’s  got  a 
better  telescope  sight  on  it  than 
mine,  and  I don’t  want  her  to 
suffer.” 

That  little  It,  abandoned  on  the 
ground.  Elf  wanted  it.  One  of  the 
creatures  would  be  sure  to  pick  it 
up.  Elf  worried.  He  would  never 
get  it  then.  If  only  the  creatures 
would  go,  or  not  notice  him.  If 
only — 

The  creature  with  the  thing  over 
his  eyes  put  it  back  where  he  had 
gotten  it  out  of  the  thing  hang- 
ing from  his  shoulder.  He  had 
taken  one  of  the  long  slim  things 
from  another  of  the  creatures  and 
placed  the  thick  end  against  his 
shoulder,  the  small  end  pointed  up- 
stream. The  others  were  standing, 
their  backs  to  Elf,  all  of  them  look- 
ing upstream.  If  they  would  re- 
main that  way,  maybe  he  could 
dart  out  and  get  the  little  It.  In 
another  moment  they  might  lose 

57 


interest  in  whatever  they  were 
watching. 

Elf  darted  out  from  his  conceal- 
ment and  grabbed  the  It  off  the 
ground,  and  in  the  same  instant 
an  ear  shattering  sound  erupted 
from  the  long  slim  thing  against 
the  creature’s  shoulder. 

“Got  her!”  the  creature  said. 

Paralyzed  with  fright,  Elf  stood 
motionless.  One  of  the  creatures 
started  to  turn  his  way.  At  the 
last  instant  Elf  darted  back  to  his 
place  of  concealment.  His  heart 
was  pounding  so  loudly  he  felt 
sure  they  would  hear  it. 

“You  sure,  Joe?” 

“Right  through  the  head.  She 
never  knew  what  happened.” 

Elf  held  the  new  It  close  to  him, 
ready  to  run  if  he  were  discovered. 
He  didn’t  dare  look  at  it  yet.  It 
wouldn’t  notice  if  he  just  held  it 
and  felt  it  without  looking  at  it.  It 
was  cold  at  first,  colder  than  the 
water  in  the  stream.  Slowly  it 
warmed.  He  dared  to  steal  a quick 
glance  it  it.  It  gleamed  at  him  as 
though  possessed  of  inner  life.  A 
new  feeling  of  security  grew  with- 
in him,  greater  than  he  had  ever 
known.  The  other  It,  the  one  half 
filled  with  dried  mud,  and  deeply 
scratched  from  the  violent  rush  of 
water  over  it  when  the  stream  went 
over  its  banks,  lay  forgotten  at  his 
feet. 

“Well,  that  finishes  the  survey 
trip  for  this  time.” 

Elf  paid  little  attention  to  the 
voice  whispers  now,  too  wrapped  up 
in  his  new  feelings. 

“Yes,  and  quite  a haul.  Twenty- 
two  colonies — three  more  than  ten 

58 


years  ago.  Fourteen  of  them  uncon- 
taminated, seven  with  only  one  or 
two  intelligent  offspring  to  kill, 
only  one  colony  so  contaminated  we 
had  to  wipe  it  out  altogether.  And 
one  renegade.” 

“The  renegades  are  growing 
scarcer  every  time.  Another  ten  or 
twenty  years  and  they’ll  be  extinct.” 

“Then  there  won’t  be  any  more 
intelligent  offspring  in  these  colo- 
nies.” 

“Let’s  get  going.  It’ll  be  dark  in 
another  hour  or  so.” 

The  creatures  were  hiding  some 
of  their  Its  under  their  skin,  in  their 
carrying  cases.  There  was  a feeling 
about  them  of  departure.  Elf  waited 
until  they  were  on  the  move,  back 
the  way  they  had  come,  then  he 
followed  at  a safe  distance. 

He  debated  whether  to  show  him- 
self now  or  wait.  The  sun  was  going 
down  in  the  sky  now.  It  wouldn’t 
be  long  until  it  went  down  for  the 
night.  Should  he  wait  until  in  the 
morning  to  let  them  get  their  first 
glimpse  of  him? 

He  smiled  to  himself.  He  had 
plenty  of  time.  Tomorrow  and  to- 
morrow. He  would  never  return  to 
Big  One  and  the  other  men.  Men 
or  creatures,  he  would  join  with 
these  new  and  wonderful  creatures. 
They  were  his  kind. 

He  thought  of  the  girl  Elf.  They 
were  her  kind,  too.  If  he  could 
only  get  her  to  come  with  him. 

On  sudden  impulse  he  decided 
to  try.  These  creatures  were  going 
back  the  same  way  they  had  come. 
If  he  ran,  and  if  she  came  right 
with  him,  they  could  catch  up  with 
the  creatures  before  they  went  so 
far  they  would  lose  them. 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


He  turned  back,  going  carefully 
until  he  could  no  longer  see  the 
creatures,  then  he  ran.  He  headed 
directly  toward  the  place  where 
the  women  and  Elfs  stayed.  They 
would  not  be  so  easily  alarmed  as 
the  men  because  there  were  so 
many  of  them  they  couldn’t  re- 
member one  another,  and  one  more 
or  less  of  the  Elfs  went  unnoticed. 

When  he  reached  the  clearing 
he  slowed  to  a walk,  looking  for 
her.  Ordinarily  he  didn’t  have  to 
look  much.  She  would  see  him  and 
come  to  him,  smiling  in  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  the  only  one 
like  her. 

He  became  a little  angry.  Was 
she  hiding?  Then  he  saw  her.  He 
went  to  her.  She  was  on  her 
stomach,  motionless  as  though 
asleep,  but  something  was  dif- 
ferent. There  was  a hole  in  one 
side  of  her  head,  and  on  the  op- 
posite side  it  was  tom  open,  r^ 
and  grayish  white,  with — He  knelt 
down  and  touched  her.  She  had 
the  same  inert  feel  to  her  that 
others  had  had  who  never  again 
moved. 

He  studied  her  head  curiously. 
He  had  never  seen  anything  like 
this.  He  shook  her.  She  remained 
limp.  He  sighed.  He  knew  what 
would  happen  now.  It  was  already 
happening.  The  odor  was  very 
faint  yet,  but  she  would  not  move 
again,  and  day  after  day  the  odor 
would  get  stronger.  No  one  liked 
it. 

He  would  have  to  hurry  or  he 
would  lose  the  creatures.  He  turned 
and  ran,  never  looking  back.  Once 
he  started  to  cry,  then  stopped  in 

GAME  PRESERVE 


surprise.  Why  had  he  seen  crying, 
he  wondered.  He  hadn’t  hurt  him- 
self. 

He  caught  up  with  the  crea- 
tures. They  were  hurrying  now, 
their  long  slender  Its  balanced  on 
one  shoulder,  the  big  end  resting 
in  the  palm  of  the  hand.  They  no 
longer  moved  cautiously.  Shortly 
it  was  new  country.  Elf  had  never 
been  this  far  from  the  stream.  Big 
One  more  or  less  led  the  men,  and 
always  more  or  less  followed  the 
same  route  in  cross  country  trips. 

The  creatures  didn’t  spend  hours 
stumbling  along  impossible  paths. 
They  looked  ahead  of  them  and 
selected  a way,  and  took  it.  Also 
they  didn’t  have  a heavy  It  to 
transport,  fifty  feet  at  a time.  Elf 
began  to  sense  they  bad  a destina- 
tion in  mind.  Probably  the  place 
they  lived. 


JUST  AHEAD  WAS  a steep 
bank,  higher  than  a man,  run- 
ning in  a long  line.  The  creatures 
climbed  the  bank  and  vanished  on 
the  other  side.  Cautiously  Elf  fol- 
lowed them,  heading  toward  a large 
stone  with  It  qualities  at  the  top 
of  the  bank  from  whose  conceal- 
ment he  could  see  where  they  had 
gone  without  being  seen.  He 
reached  it  and  cautiously  peeked 
around  it.  Just  below  him  were 
the  creatures,  but  what  amazed  Elf 
was  the  sight  of  the  big  It. 

It  was  very  much  like  the  big  It 
the  men  had,  except  that  there 
were  differences  in  shape,  and  in- 
stead of  one  round  thing  at  one 
comer,  it  had  one  at  each  corner 
and  rested  on  them  so  that  it  was 


59 


held  off  the  ground.  It  glistened  in- 
stead of  being  dull.  It  had  a strange 
odor  that  was  quite  strong. 

The  creatures  were  putting  some 
of  their  Its  into  it,  two  of  them  had 
actually  climbed  into  it — something 
neither  Elf  nor  the  men  had  ever 
dared  to  do  with  their  own  big  It. 

Elf  took  his  eyes  off  of  it  for  a 
moment  to  marvel  at  the  ground. 
It  seemed  made  of  stone,  but  such 
stone  as  he  had  never  before  seen. 
It  was  an  even  width  with  edges 
going  in  straight  lines  that  para- 
lelled  the  long  narrow  hill  on 
which  he  stood,  and  on  the  other 
side  was  a similar  hill,  extending 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 

He  returned  his  attention  to  the 
creatures  and  their  big  It.  The 
creatures  had  all  climbed  into  it 
now.  Possibly  they  were  settling 
down  for  the  night,  though  it  was 
still  early  for  that  . . . 

No  matter.  There  was  plenty  of 
time.  Tomorrow  and  tomorrow. 
Elf  would  show  himself  in  the 
morning,  then  run  away.  He  would 
come  back  again  after  a while  and 
show  himself  a little  longer,  giv- 
ing them  time  to  get  used  to  him 
so  they  wouldn’t  panic. 

They  were  playing  their  game 
of  making  voice  sounds  to  one 
another  again.  It  seemed  their 
major  preoccupation.  Elf  thought 
how  much  fun  it  would  be  to  be 
one  of  them,  making  voice  sounds 
to  his  heart’s  content. 

“I  don’t  see  why  the  govern- 
ment doesn’t  wipe  out  the  whole 
lot,”  one  of  them  was  saying.  “It’s 
hopeless  to  keep  them  alive.  Feeble- 
mindedness is  dominant  in  them. 
They  can’t  be  absorbed  into  the 

60 


race  again,  and  any  intelligent  off- 
spring they  get  from  mating  with 
a renegade  would  start  a long  line 
of  descendents,  at  least  one  fourth 
of  whom  would  be  mindless  idiots.” 

“Well,”  another  of  them  said, 
“It’s  one  of  those  things  where 
there  is  no  answer.  Wipe  them  out, 
and  next  year  it  would  be  all  the 
blond  haired  people  to  be  wiped 
out  to  keep  the  race  of  dark  haired 
people  pure,  or  something.  Probab- 
ly in  another  hundred  years  nature 
will  take  care  of  the  problem  by 
wiping  them  out  for  us.  Meanwhile 
we  game  wardens  must  make  the 
rounds  every  two  years  and  weed 
out  any  of  them  we  can  find  that 
have  intelligence.”  He  looked  up 
the  embankment  but  did  not  notice 
Elf’s  head,  concealed  partially  by 
the  grass  around  the  concrete 
marker.  “It’s  an  easy  job.  Any  of 
them  we  missed  seeing  this  time, 
we’ll  probably  get  next  time.  In 
the  six  or  eight  visits  we  make  be- 
fore the  intelligent  ones  can  become 
adults  and  mate  we  always  find 
them.” 

“What  I hate  is  when  they  see 
us,  those  intelligent  ones,”  a third 
voice  said.  “When  they  walk  right 
up  to  us  and  want  to  be  friends 
with  us  it’s  too  much  like  plain 
murder,  except  that  they  can’t 
talk,  and  only  make  moronic  sounds 
like  ‘Bdl-bdl-bdl.’  Even  so,  it  gets 
me  when  we  kill  them.”  The  others 
laughed. 

Suddenly  Elf  heard  a new  sound 
from  the  big  It.  It  was  not  a voice 
sound,  or  if  it  was  it  was  one  that 
Elf  felt  he  could  not  possibly  match 
exactly.  It  was  a growling,  “RRrr- 
RRrrRRrr.”  Suddenly  it  was  re- 

ROG  PHILLIPS 


placed  by  still  a different  sound,  a 
“p-p-p-p-p”  going  very  rapidly. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  way  these  crea- 
tures snored.  It  was  not  unpleasant. 
Elf  cocked  his  head  to  one  side, 
listening  to  the  sound,  smiling. 
How  exciting  it  would  be  when  he 
could  join  with  these  creatures!  He 
wanted  to  so  much. 

The  big  It  began  to  move.  In 
the  first  brief  second  Elf  could  not 
believe  his  senses.  How  could  it 
move  without  being  carried?  But 
it  was  moving,  and  the  creatures 
didn’t  seem  to  be  aware  of  it!  Or 
perhaps  they  were  too  overcome  by 
fear  to  leap  out! 

Already  the  big  It  was  moving 
faster  than  a walk,  and  was  mov- 
ing faster  with  every  heartbeat. 
How  could  they  remain  unaware 
of  it  and  not  leap  to  safety? 

Belatedly  Elf  abandoned  caution 
and  leaped  down  the  embankment 
to  the  flat  ribbon  of  rock,  shouting. 
But  already  the  big  It  was  over  a 
hundred  yards  away,  and  moving 
faster  now  than  birds  in  flight! 

He  shouted,  but  the  creatures 
didn’t  hear  him — or  perhaps  they 
were  so  overcome  with  fright  that 


they  were  frozen.  Yes,  that  must 
be  it. 

Elf  ran  after  the  big  It.  If  he 
could  only  catch  up  with  it  he 
would  gladly  join  the  creatures  in 
their  fate.  Better  to  die  with  them 
than  to  lose  them! 

He  ran  and  ran,  refusing  to  be- 
lieve he  could  never  overtake  the 
big  It,  even  when  it  disappeared 
from  view,  going  faster  than  the 
wind.  He  ran  and  ran  until  his  legs 
could  lift  no  more. 

Blinded  by  tears,  he  tripped  and 
sprawled  full  length  on  the  wide 
ribbon  of  stone.  His  nose  bled  from 
hitting  the  hard  surface.  His  knees 
were  scraped  and  bleeding.  He  was 
unaware  of  this. 

He  was  aware  only  that  the 
creatures  were  gone,  to  what  un- 
imaginable fate  he  could  not  guess, 
but  lost  to  him,  perhaps  forever. 

Sobs  welled  up  within  him, 
spilled  out,  shaking  his  small  naked 
body.  He  cried  as  he  hadn’t  cried 
since  he  was  a baby. 

And  the  empty  Coca  Cola  bottle 
clutched  forgotten  in  his  hand 
glistened  with  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  ...  END 


FIRST  EDITIONS  OF  IF! 


Two  collector's”  issues  FREE  with  your  subscription! 

A LIMITED  number  of  copies  of  the  first  issue  of  IF,  Volume  1,  No,  1, 
dated  March  1952,  are  still  available.  Other  back  issues  available  are: 
May  and  July  1953;  March,  April,  July,  October  and  November  1954; 
January,  March  and  April  1955;  February,  April,  June,  August,  October, 
December  1956;  February,  April,  June  1957.  Only  35^  each  postpaid. 

If  you  subscribe  to  IF  for  12  issues  (only  $3.50),  we  will  mail  you 
your  choice  of  any  two  of  these  back  issues  as  a gift!  Address  Circulation 
Dept.,  IF  Magazine,  Kingston,  New  York. 


GAME  PRESERVE 


61 


Illustrated  by  Virgil  Finlay 


DARK 


Sooner  or  later  it  would  happen,  and  after  that  he  wouldn’t 


ever  have  to  worry  again.  He’d  be  dead,  or  worse. 


one  of  the  silent  living  dead. 


WINDOWS 


I WAS  SUDDENLY  wide  awake  pain,  then  a choking  sound,  and 

and  listening.  A gray  light  the  the  unmistakable  thud  of  a falling 

color  of  wet  charcoal  lay  over  the  body.  An  odd  whirring  sound 

chilled  room.  There  it  was  again,  clicked  off.  Then  a voice  said, 

Plain  and  sharp  through  the  thin  “Grab  the  verminous  legs  of  this 

wall  separating  my  room  from  that  subversive,  Marty.  Let’s  get  him 

of  old  man  Donnicker,  the  shoe-  in  the  wagon.” 

maker.  “You  gave  him  too  much  bip. 

Maybe  he  was  sick.  No,  that  He  looks  deader  than  Einstein.” 
wasn’t  it.  Another  muted  cry  of  “I  said  grab  his  legs.” 


63 


A door  shut.  I went  to  the  win- 
dow. I was  shivering  in  the  morning 
chill.  A black  car  moved  away 
down  the  broken  pavement.  It 
swerved  to  miss  a large  mudhole 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  and 
an  old  woman  with  burlap  wrapped 
around  her  feet  didn’t  move  fast 
enough.  She  flew  across  the  side- 
walk like  a ragged  dummy  and  lay 
in  a heap. 

Goodbye,  Donnicker.  I had  seen 
the  black  car  before.  Donnicker 
was  dead.  But  it  didn’t  bother  me. 
I never  had  anything  to  do  with 
neighbors,  anybody  I didn’t  know 
had  a top  clearance.  I was  clear 
and  intended  to  stay  that  way. 

You  just  never  knew.  Donnicker 
had  seemed  like  a true  patriot.  My 
carefully  distant  and  casual  ob- 
servations of  him  had  led  me  to 
believe  he  was  as  happily  stupid 
as  I was.  But  he  had  been  hiding 
something. 

I turned  from  the  window  and 
started  the  day’s  routine  that  had 
been  the  same  for  as  long  as  I 
could  remember.  I warmed  up 
some  mush  on  the  gas  burner.  At 
seven,  as  always,  the  Tevee  warmed 
up,  and  Miss  Info  with  the  lac- 
quered lips  smiled  at  me.  “.  . . and 
so  don’t  worry,  citizens.  The  past 
is  dead.  The  future  is  assured,  and 
tomorrow  will  only  be  another  to- 
day. And  today  we  are  safe  and 
care-free.” 

Amen.  She  said  it  every  morn- 
ing, but  it  was  nice  hearing  it  again. 
Then  the  news  came  on.  There  was 
a pile  of  junked  tractors,  trucks 
and  harvesting  machines,  smashed 
and  rusting.  Then  a line  of  farmers 
working  with  hoes  and  hand- 

64 


guided  ploughs  drawn  by  horses. 

“Machines  took  away  sacred 
routine  work  from  citizens.  Egg- 
heads built  the  machines  to 
rupt  and  spread  the  disease  of 
reason.  We  are  now  replacing 
machines  at  the  rate  of  a million 
a week.  Soon,  all  of  us  will  again 
be  united  in  the  happy  harmonious 
brotherhood  of  labor.  And  when 
you  see  a rusting  machine,  what 
you  are  seeing  is  another  captured 
Egghead,  frothing  and  fuming  in 
its  cage  . . 

At  a quarter  to  eight  I walked 
ten  blocks  to  work.  There  were  the 
usual  hectic  early  morning  traffic 
jams.  Wagon-loads  of  produce  and 
half-starv^  horses  blocking  the 
streets.  The  same  man  was  bating 
a nag  with  a board.  A wagon  piled 
with  fruit  and  vegetables  was  stuck 
in  a pot  hole  in  the  pavement.  Two 
men  were  carrying  a spinning  wheel 
into  the  front  of  an  apartment 
building.  A peddler  was  selling  oil 
lanterns,  wicks  and  kerosene  out 
of  a barrel.  The  same  women  and 
boys  in  dirty  sheepskin  jackets  were 
hauling  rickshaws. 

I really  didn’t  see  anyone  or 
speak  to  anyone.  I didn’t  know  any- 
one. I knew  I was  safe  and  had 
nothing  to  worry  about.  Once  a 
week  I used  up  my  GI  liquor  chit 
at  a bar  with  a Security  seal  on  the 
window.  Twice  a week,  I slept  over 
at  a GI  brothel,  where  every  girl 
had  a Security  clearance  number 
tattoed  on  her  thigh. 

I had  nothing  to  worry  about. 

I was  passed  through  three  gates 
by  guards  and  went  to  my  little 
cage  inside  Pentagon  Circle,  local 
headquarters  of  the  Department  of 

BRYCE  WALTON 


Internal  Security. 

Until  that  Tuesday  morning  I 
couldn’t  remember  ever  having 
done  anything  but  sort  colored 
cards.  My  chief  qualification  for 
my  job:  I wasn’t  color  blind.  When 
a green  card  with  figures  on  it 
meaning  nothing  to  me  came  out 
of  a slot  in  the  wall,  I pushed  it  into 
a green  slot  that  led  somewhere  into 
a filing  department.  When  a red 
card  came  out,  I pushed  it  into  a 
red  slot,  and  so  forth.  There  were 
cards  of  fifteen  colors. 

Another  qualification:  my  un- 
conscious efficiency.  I never  had 
even  a hint  of  an  abstract  thought. 
I never  remembered  yesterday,  let 
alone  the  day  before.  And  until 
that  Tuesday  morning  I never  made 
even  a tiny  mistake. 

I had  no  idea  what  I was  doing. 
Nor  was  I at  all  curious.  Curiosity 
was  highly  suspect.  Curiosity  was 
dangerous  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
worlds.  It  was  ridiculous  in  a state 
where  people  had  never  had  it  so 
good. 

Cards  sped  from  my  hands  al- 
ways into  correct  slots.  Care-free 
hours  slipped  painlessly  by  into  the 
dead  past.  I was  sure  I was  safe 
and  not  thinking  at  all.  I was  a 
blessed  blank.  And  then  all  at 
once — 

"'The  eyes  are  the  windows  of 
the  souV^ 

The  thought  meant  nothing  to 
me,  except  it  was  wrong,  it  didn’t 
belong  in  the  routine.  The  routine 
flew  to  pieces.  My  efficiency  blew 
up.  I felt  like  a shiny  bottle  in  a 
row  of  bottles  with  a sudden  crack 
running  down  the  middle.  Red 
cards  hit  blue  slots.  Green  cards 


hit  yellow  slots.  Cards  piled  up, 
spilled  over  the  floor.  The  more  I 
tried  to  return  to  my  efficiency,  the 
worse  everything  was. 

My  suit  was  wet  with  sweat.  I 
thought  of  Mr.  Donnicker.  If  a 
man’s  routine  broke,  it  could  only 
be  because  some  inner  guilt  was 
disrupting  his  harmony.  A happy 
person  is  an  efficient  person.  In- 
efficiency is  the  symptom  of  a guilty 
conscience. 

“Mr.  Fredricks,”  a voice  whis- 
pered. “You’re  replaced  here.” 

A cold  paralysis  gripped  me. 

“Get  up,  Fred.” 

I jumped  out  of  my  chair.  A 
thin,  stooped  little  man  in  a cheap 
gray  suit  and  dull  eyes  took  my 
place.  In  no  tiipe  at  all  he  had 
straightened  out  my  mess.  Cards 
were  blurs  moving  into  the  right 
slots. 

A wide,  fattish  man  in  a wrinkled 
dark  suit  was  watching  me  out  of 
curiously  shining  eyes.  He  carried 
a black  briefcase.  I had  seen  the 
black  briefcases  before.  Special 
Police  Agent. 

He  opened  the  door  of  my  cage 
and  motioned  for  me  to  go  out 
ahead  of  him.  “Say  goodbye  to 
all  this,  Fred.” 

I felt  the  smile  on  my  wet  face 
as  I nodded  and  tried  to  feel  grate- 
ful while  at  the  same  time  trying 
to  suppress  the  flood  of  fear  com- 
ing up  through  me  and  turning  to 
sickness  in  my  throat. 

I simply  couldn’t  be  afraid.  I 
had  nothing  to  hide.  And  if  I was 
hiding  something  inside  me  I didn’t 
know  about,  I should  feel  glad  to 
have  it  detected  and  get  it  all 
cleaned  out. 


DARK  WINDOWS 


65 


“My  name  is  John  Mesner,”  he 
said  as  we  walked  down  the  cor- 
ridor. I couldn’t  say  anything.  I 
felt  like  a string  someone  was  be- 
ginning to  saw  on  with  a rusty 
knife. 

Mesner’s  office  somewhere  up- 
stairs was  a dingy  room  with  a dusty 
desk  and  a couple  of  chairs.  The 
walls  were  made  of  cracked  con- 
crete lined  with  dusty  filing  cabi- 
nets. The  window  was  so  soiled  I 
could  barely  see  the  shadows  of 
bars  through  the  panes. 

Mesner  sat  down,  put  his  feet 
on  the  desk.  He  took  an  apple  out 
of  his  desk  drawer  and  started  peel- 
ing it  slowly  with  a small  penknife. 

“You  scared,  Fred?” 

“Of  course  not.” 

He  smiled,  held  out  a long  rib- 
bon of  apple  peel  and  dropped  it 
on  the  floor.  “You’re  scared,  Fred.” 

I put  my  Personology  Card  on 
his  desk  right  in  front  of  him.  “I 
just  had  a quarterly  brain-check  a 
week  ago.  There  it  is.” 

I stopped  myself  somehow  from 
yelling  out  wildly  as  he  stabbed 
the  card  with  his  penknife,  then 
tore  it  in  little  pieces  and  dropped 
them  on  the  floor. 

“You’ve  got  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of,  Fred.  But  it’ll  probably  take 
you  a while  to  realize  it.”  He  went 
on  peeling  the  apple.  He  had  thick 
hands,  stubby  fingers,  and  the  nails 
were  dirty.  He  had  a round  pale 
face,  a receding  chin,  thinning  hair, 
and  an  absurd  little  red  cupid 
bow  mouth. 

I tried  not  to  hear  the  moaning 
sound  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
other  side  of  a door  to  Mesner’s 
right.  He  got  up,  went  to  the  door, 

66 


opened  it.  “Shut  that  guy  up,”  he 
said.  He  shut  the  door  and  sat 
down  again.  He  sliced  off  a bite  of 
apple  and  pushed  it  into  his  mouth. 

“To  make  it  short,  Fred.  I’ve  in- 
vestigated you  thoroughly.  And  I 
can  use  you  here  in  SPA.  You’re 
being  transferred.” 

My  throat  was  constricted.  I 
leaned  against  the  desk.  “I  don’t 
understand,  sir.  I don’t  know  any- 
thing about  Police  Work.  I’m  only 
a clerk,  a card-sorter.  I don’t  have 
any  qualifications.  And  you  can  see 
— my  card.” 

“A  couple  of  field-trips  with  me, 
Fred,  and  you’ll  be  a veteran.” 
“But  why  me?” 

“You’re  already  in  the  Security 
Department  for  one  thing.  That 
makes  it  convenient.  Also,  your  In- 
telligence Quotient.” 

“It’s  a low  eighty,”  I said.  “That’s 
the  average.  I’m  well  below  nor- 
mal, and  this  brain-check  showed 
I was  lower  this  time  than  the  last. 
So  how  could  my  IQ  make  any  dif- 
ference?” 

“Curiosity  killed  the  cat,  Fred.” 
I managed  to  sit  down  before 
I fell  down.  It  was  impossible  that 
I should  really  become  an  agent  in 
the  SP,  the  most  powerful  and 
feared  organization  in  the  state. 
What  then  w^as  Mesner  really  up 
to?  One  work  error  shouldn’t  have 
snagged  me.  I’d  never  been  guilty 
of  thinking  above  a rudimentary 
and  socially  acceptable  level.  My 
IQ  was  unquestionably  low.  I was 
little  more  than  a moron.  So  why 
was  I frightened.  Why  did  I feel 
guilty?  Why  was  Mesner  interested? 

Mesner  stood  up  and  dropped 
the  apple  core  on  the  floor. 


BRYCE  WALTON 


“We’re  going  on  a field-trip  now, 
Fred.  Your  indoctrination  as  an 
SPA  man  is  beginning.” 

Mesner  piloted  the  heliocar. 
Mesner  said  the  only  heliocars  left 
in  operation  belonged  to  SPA.  He 
dropped  it  on  a plot  of  dried  grass 
on  the  side  of  a forested  hill  in  the 
Tennessee  Mountains.  Until  we 
got  out  of  the  heliocar,  I didn’t 
know  Mesner  had  a gun.  I couldn’t 
remember  having  heard  of  a gun 
or  seen  one  before,  but  Mesner  told 
me  all  about  guns.  He  slid  the 
rifle  out  of  a canvas  case,  checked 
it,  called  it  his  favorite  little  field 
piece.  Then  he  handed  me  his  black 
briefcase. 

He  led  the  way  down  a narrow 
path.  It  was  a quiet  sunny  day. 
Squirrels  ran  between  the  trees. 
Birds  hopped  and  sang  up  in  the 
leaves. 

In  front  of  a gray,  dilapidated 
shack  was  a rickety  wagon.  Two 
men  were  lifting  a sack  out  of  the 
rear  of  the  wagon.  They  wore  rag- 
ged overalls  and  no  shirts  and  they 
were  both  barefoot. 

Mesner  yelled.  “You.  Dirksons! 
This  is  a security  check.” 

The  shorter  one  started  to  run. 
Mesner  shot  him  in  the  back  of 
the  head.  The  tall  man  grabbed 
up  a piece  of  iron  with  a hooked 
end  and  started  yelling  as  he  ran 
toward  us. 

“Open  the  briefcase,”  Mesner 
said  oilmly. 

I opened  it.  Mesner  leaned  the 
rifle  against  a tree.  He  knelt  down, 
brought  a metal  disc  out  of  the 
briefcase  attached  to  a wire.  He 
turned  a dial  on  a bank  of  controls 


inside  the  case.  I heard  a whirring 
hum.  The  tall  hillbilly  screamed. 
He  stretched  up  on  his  toes, 
strained  his  arms  and  neck  at  the 
sky,  then  fell  twitching  on  his  face. 

Mesner  walked  toward  the  hill- 
billy and  I stumbled  after  him.  I 
was  going  to  be  sick,  very  sick.  The 
sun  worked  like  pins  in  my  eye- 
balls. 

Mesner  drew  a round  metal  cap 
which  he  called  a stroboscope  from 
the  case,  fitted  it  on  the  hillbilly’s 
head.  The  metal  strip  had  a disc 
hanging  down  in  front  of  the  hill- 
billy’s eyes  and  about  two  inches 
away. 

Mesner  worked  the  dials  and  the 
flicker  began  blinking  off  and  on, 
faster  and  faster,  then  slower,  then 
faster  again  as  the  hillbilly’s  eyes 
stared  into  it  unblinkingly.  His 
muscles  began  to  twitch.  He  beat 
the  ground  with  his  flat  hands. 
Grasshoppers  jumped  across  his 
face. 

Mesner  pointed  out  to  me  that 
I was  watching  an  on-the-spot 
brain-probe.  The  brain-prober,  or 
bipper,  as  Mesner  called  it,  was  so 
effective  he  hardly  ever  had  to  use 
the  other  items  in  the  case  such  as 
the  psychopharmaceuticals,  drugs, 
brain  shock  gadgets,  extractors, 
nerve  stretchers  and  the  like. 

Mesner  sat  on  his  haunches, 
worked  the  flicker  and  lit  a ciga- 
rette. “These  brain-wave  flickers 
correspond  to  any  desired  brain- 
wave rhythm.  You  play  around  and 
you’ll  get  the  one  you  want.  They 
talk.  What  they  don’t  say  comes 
out  later  from  the  recorder.  With 
this  bipper  you  can  get  anything 
out  of  anyone,  almost.  If  you  don’t 


DARK  WINDOWS 


67 


get  the  info  you  want  it’s  only  be- 
cause they  don’t  have  it.  It  bums 
them  out  considerably  in  the  proc- 
ess, but  that’s  all  to  the  good. 
They’re  erased,  and  won’t  do  any 
meddlesome  thinking  again.” 

The  hillbilly  wasn’t  moving  now 
as  the  flicker  worked  on  his  eyes 
and  activated  desired  mental  re- 
sponses. 

“Dirkson,”  Mesner  said.  “What 
happened  to  your  sister,  Elsa?” 
“Don’t  know.  She  runned  away.” 
“She  was  blind  wasn’t  she? 
Wasn’t  she  bom  blind?” 

I felt  an  icy  twist  in  my  stomach. 
“That’s  right.  Homed  blind  as 
a bat.” 

“What  happened  to  her?” 
“Runned  away  with  some  river 
rat.” 

“You’ve  hidden  her  somewhere, 
Dirkson.  Where?” 

“I  ain’t  hid  her  nowhere.” 
Mesner  turned  a dial.  The  hill- 
billy screamed.  His  body  bent  up- 
ward. Blood  ran  out  of  his  mouth. 
He  was  chewing  his  tongue,  Mesner 
stood  up  and  frowned.  “Guess  he 
didn’t  know.  If  he  knew  he’d  have 
told  us.  He’s  no  disguised  Egghead. 
Just  a damn  collaborating,  bottle- 
headed jerk.” 

I went  over  behind  some  bmsh 
and  was  sick.  The  hillbilly  would 
never  answer  any  more  questions, 
I knew  that  much.  Now  he  was 
laughing  and  babbling  and  crawl- 
ing around  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

“It’s  rough  at  first,  Fred.  No 
matter  how  patriotic  you  are,  and 
how  much  you  hate  Eggheads,  it’s 
always  rough  at  first.  But  you 
should  get  used  to  it.” 

“What — I mean  why — ?” 

68 


“The  Dirksons  didn’t  show  for 
their  quarterly  brain-check.  You 
assume  they’re  hiding  something. 
It  turns  out  they’re  not,  then  you 
haven’t  lost  an^^hing.  Of  course 
you  have  to  bum  them  out  a little 
to  question  them.  But  better  to 
bum  one  innocent  bottlehead  than 
let  one  double-dome  slip  away.” 
Mesner  turned  and  lookrf  at  me. 
“Isn’t  that  right,  Fred?” 

“Of  course  it’s  right,”  I said 
quickly.  Mesner  smiled  at  me. 

N THE  WAY  back  to  Wash- 
ington, Mesner  piloted  the 
heliocar  casually.  He  leaned  back, 
smoking  cigarettes,  the  ashes 
streaming  down  the  front  of  his 
soiled  lapels. 

“I  think  you’ll  work  out  fine  in 
SPA,  Fred.” 

I was  still  sick.  I had  a throbbing 
ache  in  my  head  and  sweat  kept 
stinging  in  my  eyes.  I nodded 
numbed  agreement  with  Mesner. 

“I  appreciate  your  trying  to  make 
an  SPA  man  out  of  me,”  I finally 
managed  to  say.  “But  could  you 
have  made  some  mistake?  Gotten 
the  wrong  file  or  something?” 

“No.  Your  IQ  is  a nice  low 
eighty,  Fred.  But  you’re  just  not 
aware  that  you  have  what  is  techni- 
cally known  as  a quiescent  IQ.” 

“What’s  that?” 

“You’re  a true  patriot,  Fred.  We 
both  know  that.  So  don’t  be  scared. 
You  know  the  sick  and  evil  danger 
of  a high  IQ  and  so  you’ve  put  an 
unconscious  damf>er  on  your  own 
intelligence.  You’re  not  really  so 
dumb,  Fred.” 

“But  I am,”  I said  quickly. 

BRYCE  WALTON 


“No,  Fred.  You  think  you  are, 
and  you  look  and  act  normally 
stupid  and  believe  me,  Fred,  I 
admire  your  patriotic  suppression 
of  your  intelligence,  even  from  your- 
self. But  a fact  is  a fact,  and  you’re 
not  so  dumb.” 

“I’m  not  pretending.  I’m  not  a 
a subversive — 

“Easy  now,”  Mesner  said. 
“You’re  not  a subversive,  that’s 
right.  A real  subversive  knows  he’s 
smart,  is  proud  of  it  and  conscious- 
ly tries  to  hide  it  from  others.  But 
you  loathe  your  own  inherent 
mental  ability,  and  you’ve  been 
able  to  freeze  its  operation,  conceal 
it  even  from  yourself.  Now  realize 
this,  Fred.  The  only  place  we  can 
allow  intelligence  to  operate  is  in- 
side the  Government.  The  Govern- 
ment must  have  a slightly  superior 
thinking  capacity  in  order  to  run 
things — for  the  present  anyway.” 

“But  any  IQ  above  eighty  is  sub- 
versive. It  says  in  the — ” 

“That’s  an  ideal,  a goal  for  the 
future,  Fred.  When  the  transition’s 
been  made,  when  the  last  Egg- 
head is  captured  and  put  away, 
then  all  of  us  will  be  normal.  We’ll 
get  ourselves  bipped,  and  bum  our 
excessive  intelligence  down  to  the 
eighty  mark.  But  until  that  time, 
Fred,  some  of  us — especially  the 
SPA — have  to  keep  our  wits  about 
us.  An  unfortunate  necessity  that 
we  pray  will  soon  be  ended.” 

I gazed  numbly  out  through  the 
plastic  canopy  at  the  white  clouds 
streaming  past.  He  was  trying  to 
get  some  admission  out  of  me,  I 
thought.  That  was  the  only  ex- 
planation. Working  some  subtle 
game  with  me.  But  that  was  absurd 

DARK  WINDOWS 


on  its  face,  because  I was  way  below 
normal. 

“My  IQ’s  no  good  for  you  then,” 
I said.  “I  just  don’t  see — ” 

Mesner  interrupted  with  an  im- 
patient laugh.  “You’re  a hell  of  a 
lot  brighter  than  you  let  yourself 
admit  that  you  are,  Fred.  That’s 
all  I’m  saying.  You  know  it’s  a 
terrible  thing  to  be  smart,  so  you 
keep  it  under  wraps.  But  now  you 
know  there’s  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  You  know  it’s  legal  for  a while 
longer  to  be  smart  as  long  as  you’re 
in  SPA.  Now  you  can  start  open- 
ing up,  releasing  your  mental  capac- 
ity. Believe  me,  Fred,  it’s  for  the 
good  of  the  state.  I know  it  sounds 
like  a paradox,  but  that’s  how  it  is.” 

“How  can  it  be  good  when  it’s 
such  an  evil  thing?” 

“Because  right  now  it’s  a neces- 
sary evil.  SPA  has  problems,  Fred. 
There  are  still  a lot  of  Eggheads 
mnning  loose,  causing  trouble. 
And  the  doubledomes  still  loose 
are  the  toughest  ones  to  catch,  and 
that’s  our  job.  We’ve  got  to  track 
down  the  old  maniac  physicists, 
chemists,  engineers,  professors, 
psyche-boys  and  the  like  who  are 
still  working  underground.  Until 
they’re  all  caught  Fred,  we’ve  got 
to  live  with  our  own  filthy  brains. 
Because  you  see  it  takes  brains  to 
catch  brains.” 

“But  I have  hardly  any  brains  at 
all,”  I insisted. 

“You’ll  see,  Fred.  You’ll  see.” 

Before  I left  his  office  that  eve- 
ning he  gave  me  an  SPA  identity 
card.  My  name  and  face  were  on 
it.  Suddenly  it  seemed  impossibly 
official.  All  at  once,  I was  one  of 

69 


the  most  feared  and  powerful  men 
in  the  State.  Only  I knew  that  the 
only  one  I really  feared  was  me. 

That  card  supposedly  gave  me 
a free  hand.  It  could  take  me  any- 
where, even  into  top-secret  de- 
partments in  Security.  With  it,  I 
was  immune  to  curfew  laws,  to  all 
social  restrictions  and  regulations. 
But  when  I went  for  a walk  that 
evening,  I knew  I was  being  fol- 
lowed. Wherever  I went,  eyes 
watched  me  constantly.  Shadows 
moved  in  and  out  of  gray  doorways 
and  dissolved  around  comers. 

After  nine,  after  the  curfew 
sirens  howled  down  the  emptied 
streets,  I walked  fast  toward  the 
ancient  rooming  house  in  which  I 
thought  I had  always  lived.  Hun- 
dreds of  silent  gray  women  and 
children  came  out  onto  the  streets 
and  began  cleaning  them  with 
brooms.  One  by  one,  the  gas  lights 
along  the  rubbled  streets  went  out. 
I started  to  run  through  shadows, 
and  footsteps  moved  behind  me. 

A dmnken  man  came  out  of  an 
alley  and  staggered  down  the 
broken  pavement  where  weeds 
grew.  A black  car  whisked  him 
away.  But  no  black  car  stopped  for 
me.  I saw  no  one  with  a black 
briefcase  either.  I saw  only  shadows, 
and  felt  unseen  eyes  watcliing  me. 

The  old  woman  who  had  been 
run  down  by  a black  car  still  lay 
there  on  the  sidewalk.  No  one  dared 
approach  that  corpse  to  get  it  off 
the  streets.  No  one  knew  who  it 
was,  or  why  it  was  dead.  No  one 
would  take  any  chances.  One  was 
just  as  suspect  from  associating 
with  a guilty  corpse  as  a living 
neighbor  named  Donnicker. 

70 


Upstairs,  I saw  a splotch  of  blood 
on  the  hall  floor.  This  time  I knew 
it  was  Donnicker’s.  It  reminded  me 
of  the  Dirksons  now.  And  of  who 
could  say  how  many  others? 

I lay  down  and  took  all  three  of 
tomorrow’s  tranquitabs.  We  were 
allotted  a month’s  supply  of  tran- 
quitabs at  a time,  and  we  were 
all  compelled  by  law  to  take  three 
a day.  They  knocked  out  worry  and 
anxiety  usually.  But  now  they  didn’t 
seem  to  do  me  much  good.  I 
couldn’t  seem  to  go  to  sleep.  This 
had  never  happened  to  me  before. 

Maybe  Mesner  was  right.  May- 
be I did  have  a high  IQ  but 
wasn’t  consciously  aware  of  it.  This 
being  true,  then  I had  to  be  in 
SPA.  SPA  was  the  only  place  a 
high  IQ  could  be  tolerated. 

What  really  bothered  me  the 
most,  of  course,  was  why  I should 
be  worried  about  anything.  If  my 
IQ  was  useful,  I ought  to  be  glad 
of  it.  A true  patriot  should  be  glad 
also  to  have  unconscious  subversive 
elements  detected.  A true  patriot 
would  be  grateful  for  whatever 
treatment  could  cleanse  him.  What 
was  the  matter  with  me?  Didn’t 
I want  to  be  purified,  cleansed? 
Didn’t  I want  to  be  bipped  a little? 

I didn’t  trust  Mesner.  I didn’t 
believe  he  really  wanted  me  to  help 
him  track  down  Eggheads.  But 
so  what?  If  he  was  trying  to  find 
out  something  about  me,  I ought 
to  be  glad  to  cooperate. 

Only  I wasn’t. 

I had  bad  dreams.  I dreamed  of 
Dirkson  babbling  and  crawling  and 
smiling  at  me  with  his  bloody 
mouth.  He  kept  smiling  and  whis- 
pering to  me:  “I  never  did  know 

BRYCE  WALTON 


nothing,  and  now  I’m  just  all 
burned  out.” 

I dreamed  of  old  man  Donnicker 
being  dragged  down  the  stairs. 

Then  I dreamed  that  Mesner 
came  in  and  looked  down  at  me 
sleeping.  A light  bulb  came  down 
from  the  ceiling.  It  turned  bright, 
then  dull,  then  bright,  then  dull. 

Mesner  smiled  as  he  lit  a ciga- 
rette. “That  really  bothered  you 
didn’t  it,  Fred.  Bipping  the  Dirk- 
son  boy.” 

“It  made  me  sick.” 

I wanted  to  wake  up.  I tried  my 
best  to  wake  up  because  I felt  that 
if  I didn’t  wake  up  now,  I never 
would.  I would  die  in  my  sleep. 

“Let’s  talk  about  it,  Fred.  I’m 
uneasy  about  it  myself  sometimes. 
I’ve  bipped  so  many  of  them,  may- 
be my  conscience  bothers  me.  You 
think  it  might  bother  a man’s 
conscience,  Fred?” 

“What  do  you  mean,  con- 
science?” 

“Maybe  you  think  there’s  some- 
thing immoral  about  bipping  a 
man.” 

“If  the  State  does  it,  it’s  right,” 
I said.  “If  it  helps  bring  about  the 
Era  of  Normalcy  and  absolute  and 
permanent  stability,  then  any 
method  is  right.” 

Was  that  the  correct  answer? 
I was  beginning  to  feel  confused. 
Thoughts,  words  all  jumbling  up. 
There  was  an  orthodox  thought 
and  an  orthodox  answer  for  every- 
thing. I’d  learned  them  all.  But 
had  I answered  this  one  correctly? 

“That’s  right,  Fred.  But  the  old 
crackpot  Egghead  moralists  used  to 
say  that  the  end  doesn’t  necessarily 
justify  the  means.  They  would 

DARK  WINDOWS 


claim  that  bipping  a man  was 
wrong,  and  that  no  good  results 
could  ever  come  from  it.  They 
would  say  that  a destructive  means 
would  always  create  a destructive 
end.  Violence,  they  said,  could  only 
create  more  violence.  What  do  you 
think  of  that,  Fred?” 

“That’s  wrong,”  I said.  “That’s 
confusing,  double-dome  stuff.” 

“I  know.  But  we’ve  got  to  iden- 
tify with  Egghead  thinking  if  we 
can.  No  matter  how  repulsive  it  is, 
we’ve  got  to  understand  how  they 
think  rf  we’re  going  to  track  them 
down  and  put  them  away.  Now 
think  hard,  Fred.  Have  you  ever 
heard  a man  say,  ‘Better  that  the 
whole  world  should  die  than  that 
one  man’s  brain  should  be  invaded 
against  his  will.’  ” 

“No,  no,  that’s  subversive,”  I 
screamed. 

There  was  more  dream,  more 
questions,  more  and  more  confused 
answers.  I woke  up  in  a cold  sweat. 
I found  several  electronic  spyeyes 
concealed  about  the  room.  Just  out- 
side my  door  I saw  one  of  Mesner’s 
cigarette  butts.  It  was  yellowed  with 
spittle,  twisted  and  pinched  in  the 
way  his  always  were. 

I didn’t  know  if  all  of  that  night, 
or  only  part  of  it  had  been  a dream. 
I didn’t  know  if  Mesner  had  actu- 
ally been  questioning  me  in  my 
sleep  or  not.  The  spy-eyes  could  do 
that.  But  I knew  Mesner  had  been 
outside  my  door.  Probably  he  had 
been  questioning  my  dreams. 


That  day  was  worse  than  the 
night.  Mesner  had  said  to  wait 
until  I heard  from  him,  but  there 

71 


' was  no  word  from  him  that  day.  I 
tried  more  tranquitabs.  The  hell 
with  tomorrow’s  supply.  They 
didn’t  help  me.  A blinding  head- 
ache hit  me  at  regular  intervals. 

What  was  Mesner  using  me  for? 
What  did  he  want  from  me?  What 
was  I supposed  to  know? 

The  Educational  Tevee  came  on 
also  at  regular  intervals. 

“.  . . so  if  you  might  think, 
Citizens,  that  a machine  could  do 
your  simple  work  better,  just  re- 
member what  a terrible  thing  the 
machines  did  to  us  during  the 
cataclysmic  age  of  reason.  As  you 
know,  the  machines  were  invented 
to  replace  human  labor  by  Egg- 
heads who  have  always  tried  to 
destroy  normal,  comfortable  and 
simple  ways  of  life.  The  disease  of 
free-thought  was  only  possible  after 
the  machines  replaced  human 
beings,  gave  us  the  time  to  develop 
excessive  and  self-destructive  think- 
ing  ...” 

I watched  the  light  outside  my 
window  turn  a duller  gray  then 
black,  and  after  that  an  edge  of 
white  moon  slid  partly  across  the 
pane. 

Why  should  I care  what  Mesner 
was  trying  to  get  out  of  me?  If  it 
was  subversive  then  I should  be 
glad  to  get  rid  of  it.  If  I was  clear 
and  clean,  then  I had  nothing  to 
worry  about.  Why  wasn’t  I simply 
hipped  like  Donnicker  and  Dirkson 
had  been?  Why  should  a true  pa- 
triot care? 

I shivered  and  stared  into  the 
darkness.  Something  horrible  had 
happened  to  me.  For  the  first  time 
I realized  I was  entertaining  un- 
patriotic thoughts.  I didn’t  want  to 

72 


be  hipped.  And  I knew  that  when 
Mesner  finished  with  me,  I would 
be  hipped.  When  he  found  out 
whatever  I was  supposed  to  know, 
I’d  join  Dirkson  and  the  rest  of 
them.  It  had  been  all  right,  going 
along  with  the  routines,  as  long  as  1 
actually  hadn’t  seen  what  hap- 
pened to  a man  if  he  didn’t. 

I didn’t  want  to  be  erased. 
Whatever  I was,  I suddenly  wanted 
to  stay  me,  guilty  or  not.  Maybe 
this  attitude  was  all  that  Mesner 
wanted  to  be  sure  of.  But  I doubted 
it.  Because  a simple  hipping  would 
have  determined  that. 

I didn’t  think  I could  stomach 
any  more  of  Mesner’s  field-trips. 
On  the  other  hand  I had  to  go 
along.  It  all  seemed  to  boil  down  to 
whether  I wanted  to  get  bipped 
now  or  later. 

“Bipping  isn’t  bad  at  all,”  Mes- 
ner had  said  yesterday.  “After 
you’re  bipped,  you  can  do  routine 
work  like  everyone  else,  never 
worry  again  about  worrying.  That 
guy  who  replaced  you,  for  example. 
He  was  bipp>ed.  He’s  never  made  a 
mistake  for  20  years.  He  never 
will.” 

I closed  ihy  eyes.  I thought  of 
all  the  happy  bottleheads  walking 
the  streets,  out  on  the  farms,  doing 
their  routine  work,  happy  and  care- 
free as  long  as  they  didn’t  worry. 
Human  vegetables,  the  erased  ones, 
and  the  terrified  ones  who  didn’t 
know  they  were  even  scared.  Cities 
full  of  dull-eyed  ciphers,  and  now 
that  I was  outside  it  a little,  I 
could  see  them  with  an  awful  clar- 
ity. 

And  I thought — how  many  are 
as  dumb  as  they  appear  to  be? 


BRYCE  WALTON 


How  many  were  just  too  frightened 
and  numbed  to  think?  How  many 
would  stay  frightened  and  numb  so 
long  that  they  would  never  be  able 
to  think  even  if  they  sometime  de- 
cided to  try? 

It  was  easy  enough  to  assume  that 
too  much  intelligence  was  an  evil, 
a virus  to  be  burned  out.  Was  it 
better  to  have  too  little  and  be- 
come like  the  hillbilly? 

Oh,  Mesner  had  set  my  so-called 
quiescent  IQ  going  all  right.  But 
how  far  would  it  go  before  it  had 
gone  far  enough  for  his  purpose? 

HAT  NIGHT  I had  another 
bad  dream.  Only  it  didn’t  really 
seem  so  bad  as  it  should  have  been. 
A blind  man  was  talking  to  me. 
Then  I dreamed  that  a blind  girl 
with  a seeing-eye  dog  was  looking 
at  me.  She  was  about  fifteen,  may- 
be younger,  dressed  in  a plain 
flowered  dress  tied  in  back  with  a 
ribbon.  She  had  a soft  round  face 
and  her  eyes  were  wide  and  opaque. 
The  girl  and  dog  seemed  to  come 
out  of  a mist  and  they  whispered 
to  me.  It  was  frightening,  but  im- 
portant, and  I didn’t  remember 
what  it  was. 

I woke  up  shivering.  I seemed  to 
smell  wet  hair,  and  the  window 
was  open.  I couldn’t  remember 
whether  I had  shut  the  window  be- 
fore I went  to  sleep  or  not. 

Mesner  called  me  early  the  next 
morning. 

He  looked  the  same  in  his 
wrinkled  suit  with  the  food  stains 
on  the  lapels,  and  peeling  an  apple. 

“Fred,  have  you  ever  heard  a 
phrase  sounding  like  . and  the 

DARK  WINDOWS 


blind  shall  lead  them?’  ” 

I appeared  to  be  trying  to  think 
about  it,  then  said  I had  never 
heard  anything  like  that. 

“You’re  jx)sitive  about  that?” 
“I  don’t  remember  it.” 

“You  mean  you  might  have,  but 
you  just  can’t  remember  it.” 

“I  didn’t  say  that.  I doubt  if  I 
ever  heard  such  a phrase.” 

“What  about  this  one,  . . and 
the  blind  shall  see  again,’  ” 

“No,  I said. 

“You’re  sure?” 

I looked  directly  at  him  and  he 
stopped  peeling  the  apple.  “If  I’m 
supposed  to  have  such  a damn 
high  quiescent  IQ,  why  not  let  me 
in  on  a few  things?” 

“What  few  things?” 

“These  references  to  the  blind. 
The  Dirksons.  Some  blind  girl 
named  Elsa.  What  are  you  try- 
ing to  find  out?” 

“I  thought  maybe  you  remem- 
bered something,  that’s  all.  I’m 
pretty  much  in  the  dark  myself. 
All  I have  are  a few  clues  and 
theories.” 

“Clues,  theories,  about  what?” 
“Eggheads.  Sabotage.  What  the 
crackpots  could  build,  they  can 
best  destroy.  They’re  blowing  up 
factories,  manufacturing  and  power 
plants,  machines,  production.” 
“That’s  sabotage?  I thought  the 
whole  idea  in  bringing  about  the 
Era  of  Normalcy  was  to  do  away 
with  all  mechanization.  Do  every- 
thing with  the  hands,  like  in  the 
good  old  days.” 

“That’s  an  ultimate  goal,  Fred. 
Drudges  don’t  think.  They’re  hap- 
pier. But  the  transition  has  to  be 
more  gradual.  The  Eggheads  want 

73 


to  take  away  all  mechanization  at 
once,  create  chaos  and  anarchy. 
They  figure  that  will  cause  the  bot- 
tleheads  to  revolt  against  the 
Government.  We  can’t  catch  the 
saboteurs.  The  saboteurs  inside  a 
blown-up  factory,  for  example,  we 
never  know  who  they  are.  We  bip 
every  worker,  not  a sign  of  a sabo- 
teur. So  whoever  does  the  dirty 
work  is  a mindless  tool  of  the  Egg- 
head underground,  having  no  mem- 
ory of  having  committed  sabotage. 
Who  are  the  couriers,  the  ones 
who  make  vital  contact  between 
the  Egghead  underground  and  the 
saboteurs?  The  dumb  saboteur 
has  to  get  his  highly  complex  di- 
rectives from  the  Eggheads.  Who 
are  the  couriers?” 

“Why  ask  me?” 

“I  know  this  much,  Fred.  Blind 
people  are  used  as  couriers.” 

My  knees  felt  weak.  I couldn’t 
say  anything.  All  I could  think 
about  was  my  dreams. 

“I  want  to  show  you  something, 
Fred.”  Mesner  led  me  through  the 
other  door.  A bleak  concrete  cu- 
bicle, no  windows,  a damp  walled 
gray  cell.  Two  naked  men  lay  on 
slabs.  Stroboscopes  on  their  h^ds. 
Behind  them,  styluses  recorded 
brain-wave  p>atterns  on  moving 
white  strips.  One  of  the  men,  the 
one  on  the  left,  was  blind.  His  eyes 
staring  up  into  the  flicker  were 
opaque. 

“Look  at  those  brain-wave  re- 
cordings, Fred.  They’re  getting  the 
same  stimulus.  We  can  give  a 
thousand  bottleheads  this  stimulus 
with  the  flicker,  and  get  identical 
responses.  But  not  the  blind  boys. 
We  can’t  successfully  bip  a blind 


boy.  The  brain-waves  are  radically 
different  and  we’ve  never  figured 
out  a way  of  codifying  them.  A 
blind  bastard’s  never  seen  any- 
thing. The  seeing  eyes  are  trackers, 
like  radar.  But  a blind  boy  takes 
in  reality  and  records  it  and  keeps 
it  in  a different  way.  We  can’t  get 
at  the  code  easily.  But  I’m  getting 
it.  I’ve  bipped  plenty  of  blind  boys 
and  I’m  getting  it,  Fred.  The  blind 
are  used  for  couriers.  I know  that 
much.  For  the  simple  reason  that 
we  can’t  bip  meaningful  info  out 
of  their  scrambled  think-tanks.” 

The  naked  men  on  the  slabs 
moaned.  One  of  them  opened  his 
mouth  and  a bloody  foam  spread 
over  his  chin. 

“What  I’m  looking  for  now  is  a 
known  courier  who  is  also  blind. 
Then  I can  bip  him,  and  check 
the  info  with  the  code  I’ve  worked 
out.” 

He  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  took 
a black  hand-gun  out  of  a holster 
strapped  beneath  his  arm.  “Mean- 
while, Fred,  these  bottleheads  have 
had  it.  They’re  burned  out.” 

I heard  the  two  sharp  echoing 
reports  as  Mesner  shot  them  in  the 
head.  One  of  them  beat  his  heels 
on  the  slab.  Mesner  pointed  the 
smoking  revolver.  “Even  dead,  the 
blind  brain  records  differently.  See 
there?” 

I leaned  against  the  wall. 
Through  a crumbled  hole  down  in 
the  corner  of  damp  concrete,  I 
saw  two  red  eyes  and  heard  the 
rat  squealing. 

“Let’s  go,  Fred.  We’ve  got  some 
important  field-trips  on  today’s 
schedule.  And  you  still  have  a lot 
to  learn.” 


74 


BRYCE  WALTON 


We  went  to  Chicago.  We  set  up 
some  hidden  electronic  spy-eyes  in 
a big  apartment  building.  They 
were  to  be  checked  later  for  evi- 
dence of  someone  there  who  was 
hiding  an  IQ  of  over  a hundred. 

And  that  afternoon  we  ran 
down  a renegade  bio-chemist  hid- 
ing in  a tenement.  He  had  disguised 
himself  for  a number  of  years  as 
a plumber.  Mesner  bipped  him, 
and  an  official  Security  heliocar 
came  down  from  Washington  to 
take  him  away. 

When  Mesner  finished  with  the 
old  man  he  was  hopping  around 
like  a monkey,  making  grotesque 
faces,  giggling  and  yelling.  Tevee 
cameramen  were  on  hand.  A re- 
porter was  commenting  on  the 
capture  of  another,  “.  . . insane 
crackpot  who  has  been  living  here 
under  an  assumed  name  while 
plotting  and  planning  and  building 
some  diabolical  machine  with  which 
to  blow  up  the  city.  Our  depart- 
ment of  Internal  Security  excer- 
cising  its  eternal  vigilance,  cap- 
tured him  in  time  . . .” 

Mesner  and  I took  the  heliocar 
back  up  into  a clear  blue  sky  and 
headed  for  Sauk  City. 

“Do  you  wonder,  Fred,  why  we 
just  don’t  kill  them  after  they’re 
bipped?” 

“What  could  it  matter?” 

“It  doesn’t  to  them,  but  to  us  it 
matters.  Public  likes  their  scape- 
goats alive.  More  satisfying  to  hate 
live  people.  Public  likes  to  see  their 
dragons  behind  bars,  humiliated, 
treated  like  crackpots.  Makes  a 
bottlehead  feel  ^d  to  see  an  Egg- 
head dancing  like  a monkey.  Also 
prevents  martyrs.  Living  men  are 

DARK  WINDOWS 


never  martyrs.”  ‘ 

“So  why  are  we  going  to  Sauk 
City?”  I asked.  I wanted  to  change 
the  subject. 

Mesner  had  information  that  an 
ex-professor  from  some  long-ex- 
tinct University  had  been  conceal- 
ing a high  IQ  after  having  sup- 
posedly purged  himself  of  it  years 
before.  He  was  supposed  to  have 
been  caught  by  a brain-probing 
spy-eye  and  was  reported  to  have 
an  IQ  of  over  160. 

Mesner  talked  of  such  an  IQ  as 
though  it  was  a living  time-bomb 
that  might  go  off  any  minute  and 
blow  Sauk  City  and  the  entire 
State  to  hell.  He  shot  the  heliocar 
along  at  500  miles  an  hour.  He  held 
the  T-Bar  in  one  hand  and  lit  cig- 
arettes with  the  other. 

“What  upset  you  so  much,  Fred? 
I mean  that  morning  when  I in- 
terrupted you  sorting  cards?” 

I felt  a warning  click  in  my  head. 
I remembered  it.  The  eyes  are  the 
windows  of  the  soul. 

Mesner,  I thought,  couldn’t  look 
into  the  windows  of  a blind  man. 
Could  I? 

It  hadn’t  been  my  own  thought 
that  had  disrupted  my  idyllic,  care- 
free life  sorting  cards.  Mesner  had 
said  it  to  me. 

“Just  the  unexpected  break  in 
the  routine,”  I said.  “You’ve  al- 
ready explained  it.  My  quiescent 
IQ  is  just  too  high  to  be  a suc- 
cessful card-sorter.” 

“It  wasn’t  what  I said?” 

“What  did  you  say?  I’ve  for- 
gotten.” 

“The  eyes  are  the  windows  of  the 
soul.  But  I was  only  quoting,  Fred. 
Some  crackpot  said  that  long  ago.” 

75 


“Why  probe  me  about  blind 
people?  I never  knew  any.” 

“Ninety  percent  of  a human 
being’s  mental  activity  is  under- 
ground, like  most  of  an  iceberg  is 
under  water.  How  much  of  your 
past  can  you  remember,  Fred?” 
“Very  little.  The  past  is  dead. 
Why  should  I remember  it?” 
“Because  a good  intelligence  de- 
pends on  the  past.  Memory  is  a part 
of  it.  Without  a past,  you  don’t 
have  a brain.  And  we’ve  got  to  re- 
lease our  brains,  Fred,  for  awhile. 
Until  we  can  catch  saboteurs  and 
Eggheads.” 

“I  guess  I’ve  just  been  a patriot 
too  long,”  I said. 

“Remember  attending  Drake 
University  ten  years  ago,  Fred?” 
“Sure,”  I said,  fast,  as  though  it 
was  unimportant.  I was  really  be- 
ginning to  sweat.  “I  can  remember 
if  you  keep  prodding  me.  Sure,  I 
can.  So  what?  I purged  myself.  I 
forgot  it.  Schools  weren’t  illegal 
then.” 

“But  we’ve  got  to  reawaken  all 
those  past  memories,  Fred.  Make 
our  brains  work  better,  even  if  a 
lot  of  doubledome  stuff  comes  up. 
You  remember  a psyche  prof  named 
O’Hara?” 

I felt  suddenly  dizzy,  sick.  A 
wavering  wheel  started  turning  in 
my  head.  I managed  to  stop  it  from 
turning  so  fast.  “I  don’t  remem- 
ber that  at  all,”  I said. 

“Then  of  course  you  wouldn’t 
remember  that  he  was  blind?” 

In  the  darkness  behind  closed 
lids  I could  see  patterns  of  light 
begin  to  flicker  and  threatening 
whispers  dug  at  a fogging  curtain. 
“Don’t  push  it,  Fred.  It’ll  come. 

76 


I’m  patient.  If  I weren’t,  then  by 
this  time  I would  be  bipped  myself 
and  safely  put  away.” 

He  would  get  it  all  right,  I 
knew.  Sooner  or  later  he  would  tap 
it.  First  I would  tap  it,  then  Mes- 
ner  would  tap  it.  And  after  that  I 
never  would  worry  again.  I’d 
never  worry  about  remembering  or 
forgetting  anything.  I wouldn’t 
even  be  me.  A body  with  a bipped 
brain  would  walk  around  doing 
routine  work,  and  looking  like  me. 
But  I’d  be  dead.  I didn’t  want  to 
die  that  way.  Genuine  physical 
death  would  be  all  right.  But  not 
that,  not  that  hipping  treatment. 

Mesner  turned  quickly  and 
caught  me  staring  at  the  outline  of 
the  handgun  under  his  coat.  He 
smiled.  “You  want  one  of  these, 
Fred?” 

“Not  yet,”  I said.  “I  don’t  re- 
member enough  yet.  I’m  not  smart 
enough  yet.” 

“Tell  me  when  you’re  ready.” 

By  the  time  we  closed  in  on  the 
professor  in  an  old  deserted  house 
on  the  outskirts  of  Sauk  City,  he 
had  managed  to  hang  himself  to  a 
waterpipe  in  the  basement.  He 
wore  a pair  of  ragged  pants.  He 
was  terribly  thin  and  his  hair  was 
white,  and  his  toothless  mouth 
gaped  open  and  his  jaws  sucked  in. 
I had  never  seen  anyone  appear  so 
pitiful  and  so  harmless  as  that  old 
man  hanging  there. 

We  untied  the  rope  and  the  body 
fell  to  the  floor.  Mesner  took  a 
small  disc  from  his  case  and  put  it 
over  the  dead  man’s  heart,  then 
stood  up.  “He’s  too  dead.  We 
should  have  gotten  here  a few  min- 

BRYCE  WALTON 


utes  earlier.” 

He  seemed  tired  as  he  sat  down 
on  a soggy  box.  His  hands  were 
dirty  with  coal  dust  and  a smudge 
of  it  was  on  his  face. 

This  is  it,  I thought.  Now  was  as 
good  a time  for  it  as  any,  because 
there  wasn’t  any  good  time  for  it. 
He  had  all  the  advantage.  And  the 
longer  it  went  on,  the  greater  ad- 
vantage he  would  have.  It  was  only 
a question  of  time  anyway,  and  I 
couldn’t  stand  waiting. 

I lunged  at  him.  I heard  the 
faint  whining  sound,  saw  the  flash 
and  the  glint  of  the  disc  coming  out 
of  his  pocket.  A sudden,  painless 
paralysis  hit  me  and  I was  helpless 
on  my  knees  looking  at  Mesner.  He 
just  stared  at  me  morosely,  tired, 
irritated  a little. 

“You  should  know  better,  Fred. 
You’re  smart.” 

“Go  to  hell,”  I said. 

He  shook  his  head.  “Not  now, 
Fred.  Nor  you  either.  It  isn’t  me 
you  want  to  get,  Fred.  You  just 
don’t  want  to  get  hipped.  You 
ought  to  trust  me.  I don’t  want  to 
bip  you,  now  or  ever.  I mean  it.  We 
need  brains  to  catch  Eggheads  and 
that’s  my  job.  You’re  valuable. 
Everybody  getting  hipped,  it  isn’t 
easy  to  get  smart  people  these  days.” 
“Bip  me  now  then,  you  bastard. 
Get  it  over  with.” 

“You’d  better  trust  me.  I’m  be- 
ing honest.  Some  of  these  other 
oi&odox  jerks  in  Security,  they 
wouldn’t  fool  with  you.  They 
would  bip  you  sooner  than  look  at 
you.” 

“Why  don’t  you?” 

“I’ve  told  you,  for  God’s  sake. 
You’re  a bright  guy,  and  I’m 

DARK  WINDOWS 


eager  to  learn.  And  I don’t  want  to 
burn  up  any  important  info.” 

Then  I got  it.  Then  I knew  why 
he  was  keeping  the  bipper  off  me. 

I thought  about  it  all  the  way 
back  to  Washington  while  Mesner 
fed  himself  apples.  I was  supposed 
to  have  valuable  unconscious  info. 
Mesner  wanted  it.  But  the  old 
crackpots  were  right.  The  means 
not  only  created  the  ends,  but  could 
destroy  the  ends  if  the  means  were 
bad  enough.  You  probe  and  pry 
into  a man’s  brain  deep  and  hard 
enough  and  you  come  up  with 
nothing.  Your  methods  have  de- 
stroyed the  end.  You’ve  burned  out 
the  truth  you’re  trying  to  get. 

Mesner  was  trying  to  get  info 
from  me  without  burning  it  up. 

The  bastard  was  trying  to  have 
his  bloody  cake  and  eat  it.  But  the 
insight  didn’t  make  my  position  any 
easier.  He  was  going  to  get  it  some 
way.  His  talking  and  hinting  and 
probing  was  designed  to  awaken 
vital  memory  in  me,  get  it  up  into 
total  consciousness  where  he  could 
get  at  it  with  his  instruments  with- 
out the  danger  of  burning  it  up. 

Soon  as  he  got  what  he  wanted 
he  would  bip  me.  I couldn’t  keep 
him  from  getting  it  because  I didn’t 
know  what  it  was.  I couldn’t  keep 
on  suppressing  something  if  I 
didn’t  know  what  it  was,  and  I 
knew  that  no  one  can  consciously 
suppress  knowledge  in  himself  in 
any  case. 


For  two  more  days  I didn’t 

hear  from  Mesner.  I indulged 
in  feverish  and  ridiculous  escape 
fantasies.  There  could  be  no  escape 

77 


for  me.  The  educational  voices 
from  the  Tevee  drifted  in  and  out. 

. . the  greatest  threat  to  man’s 
happy  survival  is  reason.  Man  was 
never  intended  to  go  above  a cer- 
tain mental  level  and  become  there- 
by a victim  of  his  own  imagination 
and  complex  fears.  This  disease  of 
reason  has  been  carried  to  its  final 
suicidal  limit  by  Eggheads  . . .” 

No  mention  of  sabotage.  The 
care-free  public  must  not  hear  of 
such  disquieting  things.  All  the 
public  heard  24  hours  a day  was  a 
voice  telling  them  about  the  evils 
of  reason.  The  destructiveness  of 
overly-developed  brains,  and  the 
vicious  criminality  of  Eggheads. 

After  listening  to  that  long 
enough,  and  having  all  subversive 
level  IQs  purged,  who  could  be- 
lieve otherwise?  How  many  be- 
lieved otherwise  now?  Did  I?  What 
in  hell  did  Mesner  want  to  dig  out 
of  me?  Who,  what,  why  was  I? 

I was  still  a bottle.  But  now 
there  were  countless  cracks  appear- 
ing in  it. 

Then  Mesner  called,  said  we 
were  going  on  another  field-trip 
that  next  afternoon.  All  right,  I 
said.  Someway  or  other,  I knew, 
I would  make  this  my  last  trip  with 
Mesner. 

He  had  located  a blind  man,  he 
said,  who  he  knew  had  been  a 
courier,  a blind  man  definitely 
linked  up  with  a recent  sabotaging 
of  a motor  parts  plant  somewhere 
in  Illinois. 

Mesner  looked  down  on  the 
shanty  town  from  a high  bluff 
above  the  river.  The  river  rats’ 
shanties  were  built  half  in,  half  out 


of  the  water,  some  of  them  on 
stilts,  some  of  them  actually  con- 
sisting of  dilapidated  houseboats. 

Mesner  said  river  rats  were 
worse  rebs  even  than  hillbillies. 
They  drifted  up  and  down  the 
rivers.  You  staged  a raid  and  they 
dissolved  away  into  the  river  like 
rodents.  Many  of  them  skipped 
quarterly  brain-checks,  but  no  one 
knew  how  many.  Birth  and  death 
records  weren’t  kept  by  river  rats. 

I walked  ahead  of  Mesner  down 
a winding  gravel  path  into  rotting 
reeds  by  the  river,  then  we  fol- 
lowed another  muddy  path  toward 
the  shanties.  Frogs  and  insects 
hummed.  A path  of  moonlight 
moved  across  the  water.  A ribby 
hound  dog  slunk  away  from  me.  A 
ragged  kid  looking  wilder  than  the 
hound,  ran  across  the  path  and 
slipped  soundlessly  into  the  muddy 
water. 

Mesner  pointed  out  the  blind 
man’s  shack.  Then  he  looked  at 
me  and  smiled  with  that  absurd 
little  cupid  bow  mouth.  “This  isn’t 
the  time  either,  Fred.  If  you  think 
we’re  not  covered,  you’re  wrong. 
You  couldn’t  run  fifty  feet  before 
they  burned  you  down.” 

We  walked  nearer  the  loosely 
boarded  and  sagging  shack. 

“You  take  the  back,  Fred.  Just 
remember,  better  later  than  now. 
And  be  careful.  When  these  river 
rats  get  stirred  up,  they  can  cause 
a hell  of  a row.  The  entire  goon 
squad  would  have  to  move  in  and 
there  would  be  a mass  hipping 
spree.” 

Mesner  crept  nearer,  then  whis- 
pered. “No  light.  You  can’t  even 
tell  if  one  of  them’s  at  home  after 


78 


BRYCE  WALTON 


dark.  Why  do  they  need  a light? 
Go  on,  watch  the  back  door,  Fred. 
And  don’t  let  this  one  slip  by.” 

I heard  the  front  door  crash  in- 
ward. A man  wearing  only  tattered 
pants  ran  out.  He  was  thin  and 
ribby  like  the  dog,  and  I could  see 
the  moonlight  shining  on  the 
opaque  whiteness  of  his  eyes. 

He  ran  directly  at  me.  And  I 
knew  I wasn’t  going  to  try  to  stop 
him.  But  I didn’t  know  why.  Then 
Mesner  came  out  and  fired  a small 
gun,  smaller  than  the  one  under 
his  coat.  It  wasn’t  the  same.  This 
was  a nerve-gun  and  it  curled  the 
synaptic  connections  between  neu- 
rons. 

The  blind  man  collapsed  and  lay 
like  a corpse  at  my  feet.  I knelt 
down  and  felt  of  him.  Mesner  whis- 
pered for  me  to  drag  the  old  man 
inside.  I hooked  my  hands  under 
his  shoulders  and  pulled  him  into 
the  shack.  It  didn’t  matter  to  me 
now,  nor  to  the  blind  man,  I 
thought. 

He  hardly  weighed  anything.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  in  a white  silence  as 
Mesner  shone  a small  flashlight  into 
them.  Then  Mesner  shut  both 
doors  and  pulled  a ragged  cloth 
across  the  single  window. 

He  opened  his  case.  He  put  the 
stroboscope  on  the  blind  man’s 
head.  The  bluish  light  began  to 
flicker  over  the  staring  opaque  eyes. 
I saw  the  nerve-gun  lying  on  the 
floor  beside  Mesner’s  hand. 

“You’re  too  late,”  I said.  “He’s 
dead.  I wouldn’t  have  dragged  him 
in  here  if  I hadn’t  known  he  was 
dead.” 

Mesner  was  breathing  thickly. 
His  fat  round  face  was  pale  and 


shiny  with  sweat.  “I  know  he’s 
dead.  He  must  have  gulped  a fast- 
action  poison  soon  as  I came  in  the 
door.  Maybe  even  the  blind  boys 
are  deciding  things  are  getting  too 
hot.” 

Mesner  worked  the  stroboscope. 

“But  he’s  dead,”  I said. 

“Brain  cells  are  the  last  to  die,” 
Mesner  said.  “Maybe  I can  pick 
up  a little  info  yet.” 

It  burst  out  of  me  then  as  from 
an  abscess.  The  bottle  cracked  into 
a thousand  fragments.  I lunged  at 
Mesner.  He  seemed  to  roll  away 
from  me,  and  then  he  squatted 
there  in  the  flickering  light.  He 
leveled  the  gun  at  me. 

“So  you’re  beginning  to  wake  up, 
Fred!” 

Probing  a dead  man.  Question- 
ing the  dead.  Even  a corpse  was 
sacred  no  longer.  The  vile  and  hor- 
rible bastards,  all  of  them. 

“I  don’t  care  what  happens  to 
me,”  I said. 

“That’s  noble  of  you.” 

“I’m  going  to  kill  you.” 

“Why?” 

“You  wouldn’t  understand.” 

“Maybe  I wouldn’t  agree,  but  I’ll 
understand,  Fred.  I know  what 
you’re  thinking.  What  I’m  doing 
now  is  just  too  much.  Right?  The 
final  indignity  one  human  being 
could  inflict  on  another,  right?  A 
human  mind  should  be  sacred,  even 
if  it’s  dumb.  Even  if  it’s  dead.  Es- 
pecially if  it’s  dead.  Right,  Fred?” 

I started  around  the  rickety  table 
toward  him. 

“Now  it’s  set  off,  Fred.  You’re 
fired  up  now.  That’s  what  I’ve 
been  waiting  for.  You  were  planted 
to  sabotage  Security  itself,  Fred, 


DARK  WINDOWS 


79 


and  I always  knew  that.  Now 
we’re  going  to  find  out  all  the  rest 
of  it.  Now  it’s  squeezing  out  of  your 
unconscious,  and  we  can  drain  it, 
empty  it  all  out.  They  put  a lid  on 
your  mind,  Fred,  and  I’ve  taken  it 
off.  Put  on  the  ethical  pressure,  put 
it  heavy  on  your  idealistic  Egghead 
morality,  steam  it  up  hot,  blow  the 
lid  off.  It’s  working,  Fred.” 

“Is  it?”  I said.  “I  don’t  remem- 
ber anything  that  would  do  you 
any  good.  I just  know  that  it’s 
wrong,  the  final  horrible  fraud.  It 
isn’t  intelligence  you  guys  want  to 
wipe  out,  Mesner.  Not  your  own, 
not  the  big  wheels  in  power.  It’s 
only  certain  kinds  of  thinking,  un- 
desirable thoughts,  attitudes  you 
don’t  like.  Those  are  what  you  have 
to  purge.” 

“Right,  Fred.  Only  the  wrong 
kind  of  Eggheads.  Me,  hell  I’m  an 
Egghead  too.  Remember  the  prize 
pupil  in  your  psych  class  at  Drake 
University,  Fred?”  Mesner  laughed. 
“That  was  me.” 

“You  can  kill  people,”  I said. 
“You  can’t  burn  a sense  of  what’s 
right  or  wrong  out  of  people.  That 
old  dead  blind  man  there  has  pre- 
served something  you  can’t  touch.” 

“Too  bad  you  won’t  be  around 
to  see  how  wrong  you  are,  Fred. 
We  can  make  people  whatever  we 
damn  well  want  them  to  be.  Your 
old  ethical  pals  worked  out  the 
methods.  We’re  using  it  for  a dif- 
ferent end.” 

The  front  door  squeaked.  I felt 
a moist  draft  on  my  face,  and  a 
whisper  in  my  brain.  A few  words. 
I don’t  remember  what  they  were. 
But  they  were  a key  that  opened 
floodgates  of  self-understanding 

80 


and  awareness.  I remembered  a lot 
then,  a lot  of  things  and  feelings 
that  warmed  me.  I had  a wonder- 
ful sense  of  wholeness  and  I was 
no  longer  afraid  of  being  bipped, 
or  afraid  to  die. 

There  was  an  expression  of  com- 
plete triumph  on  Mesner’s  face, 
and  he  knew  what  had  happened 
to  me  and  he  wanted  it,  all  of  it, 
sucked  away  into  his  briefcase.  Just 
the  same,  the  whisper  from  the 
doorway  distracted  his  attention 
and  I went  for  him. 

In  that  second  of  time,  I saw 
the  little  blind  girl  who  had  whis- 
pered that  triggering  phrase  for  my 
release,  and  behind  her,  the  seeing- 
eye  dog.  She  was  utterly  unafraid 
and  smiling  at  me.  Courage  she 
was  saying.  And  I could  share  it 
with  her. 

She  had  sealed  her  own  death  in 
order  to  make  me  whole  again. 

I smashed  the  flashlight  off  the 
table  into  the  wall  and  my  weight 
drove  Mesner  onto  the  floor.  I man- 
aged to  grab  his  arm  and  we  lay 
there  in  the  dark  straining  for  the 
nerve-gun.  I began  to  hear  the 
whir  of  heliocars.  I twisted  Mes- 
ner’s arm  up  and  around  and  re- 
leased the  nerve-gun’s  full  charge 
directly  into  his  face.  A stammer- 
ing scream  came  out  of  him.  It  was 
the  scream  of  something  not  hu- 
man. A full  charge  of  that  into  the 
brain,  it  must  have  curled  up  the 
intricate  connections  and  short  cir- 
cuited his  brain  into  an  irreparable 
hash. 

I took  the  blind  girl’s  hand  and 
we  ran  toward  the  river.  The  sky 
was  crossed  with  search  beams. 
And  in  the  deep  darkness  by  the 

BRYCE  WALTON 


river  I was  suddenly  as  blind  as 
the  girl  who  held  my  hand.  We 
kept  running  and  stumbling 
through  the  reeds.  I felt  her  hand 
slip  from  mine.  Then  something  hit 
me. 

It  wasn’t  a localized  impact,  but 
something  seemed  to  have  hit  me 
all  over  and  moved  through  me  as 
though  my  blood  suddenly  turned 
to  lead. 

I tried  to  find  the  girl.  I tried  to 
crawl  to  the  river,  into  the  river. 
And  near  me  I heard  the  girl  say 
softly,  “Goodbye  now,  Mr.  Fred- 
ricks. Don’t  worry,  because  you’ll 
be  brave.” 

“Thanks,”  I said.  “Little  girl, 
what’s  your  name?” 

She  didn’t  answer.  I tried  to  call 
out  to  her  again  in  the  darkness, 
but  I couldn’t  move  my  lips.  Paral- 
ysis gripped  me,  and  after  that 
blackness,  with  the  lights  some- 
time later  beginning  to  flicker 
against  my  tearing  eyes,  and  then 
the  horror. 


The  inquisition  ended 

sooner  than  I thought  it  would. 
After  the  awful  intrusion,  there 
isn’t  any  farther  awareness  of  time. 
After  you  are  thoroughly  invaded, 
after  your  private  soul,  every 
naked  cell  of  your  brain  is  peeled 
open,  exposed  to  the  raw  glaring 
light,  after  that  you  no  longer 
care.  What  is  you  has  been  ob- 
literated the  way  a shadow  is  eaten 
by  the  burn  of  cold  light. 

Your  identity  is  gone.  They  take 
it.  You  are  theirs,  all  of  you  be- 
longs to  them.  You  feel  them  pour- 
ing out  your  mind  down  to  the 

DARK  WINDOWS 


pitiful  dregs  as  though  they  are 
p>ouring  cups  of  coffee. 

The  pain  is  a shredding,  ripping, 
raveling  horror.  After  that  there  is 
no  feeling  at  all,  and  this  is  worse. 

I told  them  everything  I knew. 
What  I couldn’t  tell,  they  tapped, 
tearing  chunks  out  the  way  you 
would  rip  pages  and  chapters  out 
of  a book. 

The  responsible  humanists,  scien- 
tists, intellectuals  had  known  what 
was  coming.  They  prepared  for  it, 
and  set  up  the  plan  before  the  last 
days  of  the  Egghead  purge.  They 
set  up  the  future  saboteurs  by  a 
long  intricate  process  of  psychody- 
namic conditioning.  They  did  it  in 
the  Universities  before  the  schools 
were  purged.  Promising  students 
were  selected,  worked  on. 

Fredricks,  a psychology  student, 
was  subjected  to  repeat^  hypnotic 
experiments.  A blind  Professor 
named  O’Hara  did  most  of  it.  It 
was  all  there  finally  in  Fredrick’s 
head,  but  then  it  was  all  suppressed 
and  finally  Fredricks  himself  for- 
got that  he  knew.  A delayed  hyp- 
notic response  pattern,  an  analogue, 
is  set  up.  Later  it  will  be  triggered 
off  by  a phrase,  a word,  a series  of 
words  repeated  at  conditioned  re- 
sponse intervals. 

Ten  years  later  he  was  working 
inside,  inside  Security  itself.  When 
circumstances  were  right,  a blind 
courier  was  to  have  triggered  off 
Fredrick’s  suppressed  knowledge 
allowing  him  to  sabotage  the  entire 
Department  of  Records  and  Sci- 
entific Method.  So  many  scientists 
and  intellectuals  had  already  been 
purged  that  few  remained  among 
the  available  personnel  of  Security 

81 


who  could  have  repaired  a simple 
gasoline  motor  without  a step-by- 
step  chart  taken  from  the  Depart- 
ment of  Records. 

It  would  have  been  a master 
coup  for  the  underground. 

But  Mesner  had  traced  Fred- 
rick’s identity  back  to  Drake  Uni- 
versity, back  to  O’Hara.  He  had 
gotten  suspicious,  and  removed 
Fredricks  from  Security. 

The  blind  girl  had  whispered 
the  key  phrase  just  the  same,  in 
order  that  Fredricks  might  face  the 
ordeal  of  the  inquisition  with  as 
much  pride,  strength,  and  courage 
as  possible. 

“Only  a free  man,  a man  who 
fully  respects  himself  as  an  indi- 
vidual and  a human  being,”  Fred- 
ricks told  his  inquisitors,  “only  a 
man  who  has  learned  why  he  is  liv- 
ing, can  die  like  a man.” 

Then  they  killed  me. 

They  tried  to  get  more  out  of 
me,  but  what  they  wanted  to  know, 
I knew  nothing  whatever  about.  I 
knew  nothing  about  the  under- 
ground, or  the  headquarters  of  the 
Eggheads. 

But  by  then  I was  dead,  and 
what  they  did  was  of  no  impor- 
tance. I was  no  longer  me.  There 
was  no  awareness  of  being  me.  I 
had  joined  Dirkson  and  the  rene- 
gade biochemist  and  all  the  others. 

I was  hopping  up  and  down  in  a 
cage  before  the  Tevee  cameras,  and 
a reporter  was  talking  to  millions 
of  smiling,  care-free  citizens  and 
telling  them  how  another  vicious 
crackpot  had  been  captured  just  in 
time  to  avert  some  terrible  disaster 
which  would  have  disturbed  the 
status  quo. 

82 


Then  I was  taken  away. 

“Are  you  awake  now,  Mr.  Fred- 
ricks?” 

I opened  my  eyes.  I was  in  a 
clean  white  room  lying  near  a 
barred  window.  An  attractive  nurse 
smiled  at  me.  She  was  holding  a 
clipboard  and  making  notations  on 
a report  pad. 

“How  do  you  feel  now,  Fred?” 
Painfully,  I turned  and  saw  several 
ghosts  standing  and  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed.  I could  see  a 
door  behind  them,  partly  opened 
onto  a softly  lit  corridor. 

There  was  Dr.  Malden,  a famous 
anthropologist  whom  I had  last 
seen  in  a newspaper  headline  dur- 
ing the  purge.  And  Dr.  Marquand, 
Nobel  Prize  winner  in  electrobiolo- 
gy. And  Dr.  Martinson,  one  time 
head  of  the  UN  Research  Founda- 
tion. Dr.  Rothberg,  social  psycholo- 
gist. All  dead,  all  purged,  hipped 
and  confined  years  ago.  All  ghosts. 

Only  they  were  there.  And  they 
were  alive,  and  they  seemed  glad 
to  see  me.  All  I knew  was  that  I 
was  alive  again.  I was  aware  of  be- 
ing me.  And  somehow  I knew  that 
these  forgotten  names  were  also 
alive  again. 

Rothberg  handed  me  a cigarette 
and  the  nurse  lit  it  for  me.  I re- 
membered that  once  I had  liked 
cigarettes. 

“So  what’s  happened,”  I said. 
My  voice  was  weak.  My  insides 
felt  as  though  they  were  filled  with 
grinding  pieces  of  broken  razor 

“You’re  in  Zany-Ward  No.  104,” 
Dr.  Rothberg  said. 

“I  don’t  believe  I quite  under- 
stand,” 1 said  carefully. 

DARK  WINDOWS 


“You  will,”  Dr.  Rothberg  said. 
“Let’s  just  say  for  a starter  that 
when  a man  is  hipped  and  brought 
here,  we  try  to  put  him  back  to- 
gether again.  It’s  a long  painful 
process.  Sometimes  he’s  not  quite 
the  same,  but  we’ve  done  pretty 
good  work.  We  rebuild  burned-out 
circuits.  We  have  to  know  exactly 
what  you  were  before  you  were 
hipped,  and  we  try  to  duplicate  the 
pattern.  Regeneration  is  slow  and 
rough.  You’ll  be  all  right.” 

"I'hey  shook  hands  with  me  and 
smiled  down  at  me  and  went  out. 
The  pretty  nurse  gave  me  a pill 
and  I lay  back  and  thought  about 
it.  It  was  logical  enough,  and  I 
started  to  laugh.  During  the  months 
after  that  while  the  slow  process  of 
re-learning  and  regeneration  con- 
tinued, I learned  more  about  the 
Zany- Wards.  Serious  as  it  was,  and 


as  much  as  there  was  yet  to  be 
done,  it  was  always  amusing. 

As  Eggheads  were  apprehended 
and  confined,  they  were  rehabili- 
tated, put  back  together  again,  in  a 
way  you  could  say  fissioned.  The 
Eggheads  are  the  inmates.  They, 
run  the  Zany- Wards  which  are 
used  also  as  bases  of  operation  in 
a continuing  attempt  to  disrupt  the 
Era  of  Normalcy.  Great  scientific 
labs  are  concealed  underground. 

When  Security  inspection  com- 
mittees appear  on  the  scene,  we  all 
put  on  our  acts.  We  dance,  make 
faces,  act  like  monkeys  and  giggle. 

Doctor  Rothberg  told  me  yester- 
day that  if  our  sabotage  work 
doesn’t  soon  cause  people  to  rebel 
against  the  Era  of  Normalcy,  it 
won’t  be  long  before  we’ll  be  the 
only  sane  people  left  in  the  world. 

END 


EDITOR'S  REPORT 

( Continued  from  page  3 ) 
kept  this  mission  secret  so  far,  how 
we  got  the  photos  and  when  the 
expedition  got  back.  We’ve  also 
heard  from  folks  who  seem  to  be 
having  some  pretty  hot  arguments 
about  whether  or  not  these  are  real 
Kodachromes.  We  love  a good  ar- 
gument ourselves  and  would  like 
to  keep  this  going,  but  our  con- 
science compels  us  to  admit  that 
the  whole  thing  is  nothing  more 
than  a nice  piece  of  imaginative 
illustrating  by  Mel  Hunter.  Mel 
went  even  further  and  furnished 
“blueprints”  for  the  theoretical 
ship,  on  the  front  cover.  Now  if 
someone  would  care  to  build 
one  . . . 

BRYCE  WALTON 


Last  minute  notes:  Harlan  Ellison 
is  now  in  the  army  at  Fort  Benning, 
Georgia ; but  has  his  typewriter 
along  to  finish  novel  commitments. 
Henry  Slesar  has  just  written,  di- 
rected, produced  and  photographed 
a 45-minute  movie  spoofing  the  ad- 
vertising business.  His  agent  has 
also  just  sold  one  of  his  stories  to 
the  Alfred  Hitchcock  program. 
Gnome  is  going  to  publish  a book 
version  of  Riley  and  Clifton’s  sci- 
ence fiction  award  winner  They'd 
Rather  Be  Right, 

DonT  forget  to  drop  us  that  note 
about  you.  The  statistics  can’t  pile 
up  too  fast — if  we  must,  we  can 
borrow  a computer  from  our  neigh- 
bor I.B.M.  — ekw 

83 


The  tenth  son  of  a tenth  son  was  very  sick,  but  it  was  written 


that  he  would  never  die.  Of  course,  it  was  up  to 
the  Earth  doctor  to  see  that  he  didn’t! 


They  didn’t  realize  they  were  in  trouble  until 
it  was  too  late  to  stop  it.  The  call  from  Morua 
II  came  in  quite  innocently,  relayed  to  the  ship 
from  HQ  in  Standard  GPP  Contract  code  for 
crash  priority,  which  meant  Top  Grade  Planetstry 
Emergency,  and  don’t  argue  about  it,  fellows,  just 
get  there,  fast.  Red  Doctor  Sam  Jenkins  took  one 
look  at  the  flashing  blinker  and  slammed  the  con- 
trols into  automatic ; gyros  hummed,  bearings  were 
computed  and  checked,  and  the  General  Practice 


BY  ALAN  E.  NOURSE 


Illustrated  by  Ed  Emsh 


Patrol  ship  Lancet  spun  in  its  tracks,  so  to  speak, 
and  began  homing  on  the  call-source  like  a hound 
on  a fox.  The  fact  that  Morua  II  was  a Class  VI 
planet  didn’t  quite  register  with  anybody,  just  then. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  Red  Doctor  reached  for 
the  results  of  the  Initial  Information  Survey  on 
Morua  II,  and  let  out  a howl  of  alarm.  A single 
card  sat  in  the  slot  with  a wide  black  stripe  across 
it. 

Jenkins  snapped  on  the  intercom.  “Wally,”  he 
yelped.  “Better  get  up  here  fast.” 


85 


“Trouble?”  said  the  squawk-box^ 
sleepily. 

“Oh,  brother,”  said  Jenkins. 
“Somebody’s  cracked  the  Contract 
Code  or  something.” 

A moment  later  a tall  sleepy  man 
in  green  undershorts  appeared  at 
the  control  room,  rubbing  his  eyes. 
“What  happened?”  he  said. 
“We’ve  changed  course.” 

“Yeah.  Ever  hear  of  Morua  II?” 

Green  Doctor  Wally  Stone 
frowned  and  scratched  his  whisk- 
ered chin.  “Sounds  familiar,  but  I 
can’t  quite  tune  in.  Crash  call?” 
His  eye  caught  the  black-striped 
card.  “Class  VI  planet ...  a plague 
spot!  How  can  we  get  a crash-call 
from  this?"^ 

“You  tell  me,”  said  Jenkins. 

“Wait  a minute.  Seems  to  me 
there  was  some  sort  of  nasty  busi- 
ness— ” 

Jenkins  nodded  heavily.  “There 
sure  was.  Five  successive  attempts 
to  establish  a Contract  with  them, 
and  five  times  we  got  thrown  out 
bodily.  The  last  time  an  Earth  ship 
landed  there  half  the  crew  was 
summarily  shot  and  the  others 
came  home  with  their  ears  cut  off. 
Seems  the  folks  on  Morua  II  didn’t 
want  a Contract  with  Hospital 
Earth.  And  they’re  still  in  the  jun- 
gle, as  far  as  their  medicine  goes. 
Witch  doctors  and  spells.”  He 
tossed  the  Info-card  down  the 
chute  with  a growl.  “So  now  we 
have  an  emergency  call  from  them 
in  a Contract  code  they  couldn’t 
p>ossibly  know.” 

The  surgeon  in  the  green  under- 
shorts chewed  his  lip.  “Looks  like 
somebody  in  that  last  crew  spilled 
the  beans  before  they  shot  him.” 


“Obviously.” 

“Well,  what  arc  we  doing  on 
automatics?  We’re  not  going  there, 
are  we?” 

“What  else?  You  know  the  law. 
Instantaneous  response  to  any 
crash-priority  call,  regardless  of  cir- 
cumstances— ” 

“Law  be  damned,”  Stone  cried. 
“File  a protest  with  HQ.  Cancel 
the  course  bearings  and  thumb  our 
noses  at  them!” 

“And  spend  the  next  twenty 
years  scrubbing  test  tubes.”  Jenkins 
shook  his  head  “Sorry,  it  took  me 
too  long  to  get  aboard  one  of  these 
tubs.  We  don’t  do  that  in  the  Gen- 
eral Practice  Patrol,  remember?  I 
don’t  know  how  Morua  II  got  the 
code,  but  they  got  it,  and  that’s  all 
the  farther  we’re  supposed  to  think. 
We  answer  the  call,  and  beef  about 
it  later.  If  we  still  happen  to  be 
around  later,  that  is.” 

It  had  always  been  that  way. 
Since  the  first  formal  Medical  Serv- 
ice Contract  had  been  signed  with 
Deneb  III  centuries  before.  Hos- 
pital Earth  had  laboriously  built  its 
reputation  on  that  single  founda- 
tion stone:  immediate  medical  as- 
sistance, without  question  or  hesi- 
tation, whenever  and  wherever  it 
was  required,  on  any  planet  bound 
by  Contract.  That  was  the  law,  for 
Hospital  Earth  could  not  afford  to 
jeopardize  a Contract. 

In  the  early  days  of  galactic  ex- 
ploration, of  course.  Medical  Serv- 
ices was  only  a minor  factor  in  an 
expanding  commercial  network 
that  drew  multitudes  of  planets  into 
social  and  economic  interdepend- 
ence; but  in  any  growing  civiliza- 


86 


ALAN  E.  NOURSE 


tion  division  of  labor  inevitably  oc- 
curs. Other  planets  outstripped 
Earth  in  technology,  in  communica- 
tions, in  transport,  and  in  produc- 
tion techniques — ^but  Earth  stood 
unrivaled  in  its  development  of  the 
biological  sciences.  Wherever  an 
Earth  ship  landed,  the  crew  was 
soon  rendering  Medical  Services  of 
one  sort  or  another,  whether  they 
had  planned  it  that  way  or  not.  On 
Deneb  III  the  Medical  Service 
Contract  was  formalized,  and  Hos- 
pital Earth  came  into  being.  Into 
all  known  corners  of  the  galaxy 
ships  of  the  General  Practice  Patrol 
were  dispatched — “Galactic  Pill 
Peddlers”  forging  a chain  of  Con- 
tracts from  Aldebaran  to  Zam,  ac- 
cepting calls,  diagnosing  ills,  ar- 
ranging for  proper  disposition  of 
whatever  medical  problems  they 
came  across.  Serious  problems  were 
shuttled  back  to  Hospital  Earth 
without  delay;  more  frequently  the 
GPP  crews — doctors  of  the  Red 
and  Green  services,  representing 
the  ancient  Earthly  arts  of  medicine 
and  surgery — were  able  to  handle 
the  problems  on  the  spot  and  by 
themselves. 

It  was  a rugged  service  for  a sin- 
gle planet  to  provide,  and  it  was 
costly.  Many  planets  studied  the 
terms  of  Contract  and  declined, 
pleasantly  but  firmly — and  were  as- 
sured nevertheless  that  GPP  ships 
would  answer  an  emergency  call  if 
one  was  received.  There  would  be 
a fee,  of  course,  but  the  call  would 
be  answered.  And  then  there  were 
other  planets — places  such  as 

Morua  II  . . . 

The  Lancet  homed  on  the  dismal 
grey  planet  with  an  escort  of  eight 

RX 


ugly  fighter  ships  which  had 
swarmed  up  like  hornets  to  greet 
her.  They  triangled  her  in,  ^ap- 
pled  her,  and  dropped  her  with  a 
bone- jarring  crash  into  a landing 
slot  on  the  edge  of  the  city.  As 
Sam  Jenkins  and  Wally  Stone 
picked  themselves  off  the  bulk- 
heads, trying  to  rearrange  the  scar- 
let and  green  uniforms  of  their 
respective  services,  the  main  en- 
trance lock  burst  open  with  a 
squeal  of  tortured  metal.  At  least 
a dozen  Moruans  poured  into  the 
control  room — huge  bearlike  crea- 
tures with  heavy  grey  fur  ruffing 
out  around  their  faces  like  thick 
hairy  dog  collars.  The  one  in  com- 
mand strode  forward  arrogantly, 
one  huge  paw  leveling  a placer- 
gun  with  a distinct  air  of  business 
about  it.  “Well,  you  took  long 
enough!”  he  roared,  baring  a set 
of  yellow  fangs  that  sent  shivers 
up  Jenkins  spine.  “Fourteen  hours! 
Do  you  call  that  speed?” 

Jenkins  twisted  down  the  volume 
on  his  Translator  with  a grimace. 
“You’re  lucky  we  came  at  all,”  he 
said  peevishly.  “Where’s  your  Con- 
tract? Where  did  you  get  the 
Code?” 

“Bother  the  Contract,”  the 
Moruan  snarled.  “You’re  supposed 
to  be  physicians,  eh?”  He  eyed 
them  up  and  down  as  though  he 
disapproved  of  everything  that  he 
saw.  “You  make  sick  people  well?” 
“That’s  the  general  idea.” 

“All  right.”  He  poked  a hairy 
finger  at  a shuttle  car  perched 
outside.  “In  there.” 

They  were  herded  into  the  car 
with  three  guards  in  front  and 
three  behind.  A tunnel  gulped  them 


87 


into  darkness  as  the  car  careened 
madly  into  the  city.  For  an  endless 
period  they  pitched  and  churned 
through  blackness — then  suddenly 
emerged  into  a high,  gilded  hall 
with  pale  sunlight  filtering  down. 
From  the  number  of  decorated 
guards,  and  the  scraping  and  grov- 
eling that  went  on  as  they  were 
hurried  through  embattled  corri- 
dors, it  seemed  likely  they  were 
nearing  the  seat  of  government. 
Finally  a pair  of  steel  doors  opened 
to  admit  them  to  a long,  arched 
hallway.  Their  leader,  who  was 
called  Aguar  by  his  flunkies,  halted 
them  with  a snarl  and  walked 
across  to  the  tall  figure  guarding 
the  far  door.  The  guard  did  not 
seem  pleased;  he  wore  a long  pur- 
ple cap  with  a gold  ball  on  the 
end  which  twitched  wildly  as  their 
whispered  conference  devolved  into 
growling  and  snarling.  Finally 
Aguar  motioned  them  to  follow, 
and  they  entered  the  far  chamber, 
with  Purple-Hat  glaring  at  them 
malignantly  as  they  passed. 

Aguar  halted  them  at  the  door- 
way. “His  Eminence  will  see  you,” 
he  growled. 

“Who  is  His  Eminence?”  Jen- 
kins asked. 

“The  Lord  High  Emperor  of  All 
Morua  and  Creator  of  the  Galax- 
ies,” Aguar  rumbled.  “He  is  the 
Tenth  Son  of  a Tenth  Son,  and  it 
is  written  that  he  can  never  die. 
When  you  enter,  bow,”  he  added. 

The  Tenth  Son  of  a Tenth  Son 
couldn’t  have  cared  less  whether 
they  bowed  or  not.  The  room  was 
dark  and  rank  with  the  smell  of 
sickness.  On  a pallet  in  the  center 
lay  a huge  Moruan,  panting  and 

88 


groaning.  He  was  wrapped  like  a 
mummy  in  bedclothes  of  scarlet  in- 
terwoven with  gold;  on  either  side 
of  the  bed  braziers  flickered  with 
sickly  greenish  light. 

His  Eminence  looked  up  at 
them  from  bloodshot  eyes  and 
greeted  them  with  a groan  of  an- 
guish that  seemed  to  roll  up  from 
the  soles  of  his  feet.  “Go  away,”  he 
moaned,  closing  his  eyes  again  and 
rolling  over  with  his  back  toward 
them. 

The  Red  Doctor  blinked  at  his 
companion,  then  turned  to  Aguar. 
“What  illness  is  this?”  he  whis- 
pered. 

“He  is  afflicted  with  a Pox,  as 
any  fool  can  see.  All  others  it  kills 
— ^but  His  Eminence  is  the  Tenth 
Son  of  a Tenth  Son,  and  it  is  writ- 
ten—” 

“Yes,  yes,  I know.  He  can  never 
die.”  Sam  gave  Wally  a sour  look. 
“What  happens,  though,  if  he  just 
up  and  does?” 

Aguar’s  paw  came  down  with  a 
clatter  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 
"'He  does  not  die.  We  have  you 
here  now.  You  are  doctors,  you  say. 
Cure  him.” 

They  walked  to  the  bedside  and 
lifted  back  the  covers.  Jenkins  took 
a limp  paw  in  his  hand.  He  finally 
found  a palpable  pulse  just  below 
the  second  elbow  joint.  It  was  fast 
and  thready.  The  creature’s  skin 
bagged  loosely  from  his  arm. 

“Looks  like  His  Eminence  can’t 
read,”  Wally  muttered.  “He’s  going 
fast.  Doc.” 

Jenkins  nodded  grimly.  “What 
does  it  look  like  to  you?” 

“How  should  I know?  I’ve  never 
seen  a healthy  Moruan  before,  to 

ALAN  E.  NOURSE 


say  nothing  of  a sick  one.  It  looks 
like  a pox  all  right.” 

“Probably  a viremia  of  some 
sort.”  Jenkins  went  over  the  great 
groaning  hulk  with  inquiring  fin- 
gers. 

“If  it’s  a viremia,  we’re  cooked,” 
Stone  whispered.  “None  of  the 
drugs  cross  over — and  we  won’t 
have  time  to  culture  the  stuff  and 
grow  any  new  ones — ” 

Jenkins  turned  to  Aguar.  “How 
long  has  this  gone  on?” 

“For  days,”  the  Moruan  growled. 
“He  can’t  speak.  He  grows  hot  and 
cannot  eat.  He  moans  until  the 
Palace  trembles.” 

“What  about  your  own  doctors?” 
Aguar  spat  angrily  on  the  floor. 
“They  are  jealous  as  cats  until 
trouble  comes.  Then  they  hide  in 
the  caves  like  chickens.  See  the 
green  flames?  Death  flames.  They 
leave  him  here  to  die.  But  now  that 
is  all  over.  We  have  heard  about 
you  wizards  from  Hospital  Earth. 
You  cure  all,  the  stories  say.  You 
are  very  wise,  they  say.  You  bal- 
ance the  humors  and  drive  forth 
the  spirits  of  the  Pox  like  devils.” 
He  gave  them  a terrible  grin  and 
tightened  his  hand  on  the  gold-en- 
crusted  sword.  “Now  we  see.” 

“We  can’t  promise,”  Jenkins  be- 
gan. “Sometimes  we’re  called  too 
late — but  perhaps  not  in  this  case,” 
he  added  hastily  when  he  saw  the 
Moruan’s  face.  “Tenth  Son  and 
all  that.  But  you’ll  have  to  give 
us  freedom  to  work.” 

“What  kind  of  freedom?” 

“We’ll  need  supplies  and  infor- 
mation from  our  ship.  We’ll  have  to 
consult  your  physicians.  We’ll  need 
healthy  Moruans  to  examine — ” 

RX 


“But  you  will  cure  him,”  Aguar 
said. 

Jenkins  took  a deep  breath  and 
gripped  his  red  tunic  around  his 
throat  tightly.  “Sure,  sure,”  he  said 
weakly.  “You  just  watch  us.” 

^^OUT  WHAT  DO  you  think 
we’re  going  to  do?”  the  sur- 
geon wailed,  back  in  the  control 
room  of  the  Lancet,  “Sam,  we  can’t 
touch  him.  If  he  didn’t  die  natural- 
ly we’d  kill  him  for  sure!  We  can’t 
go  near  him  without  a Bio-survey — 
look  what  happened  on  Baron 
when  they  tried  it!  Half  the  plane- 
tary population  wiped  out  before 
they  realized  that  the  antibiotic 
was  more  deadly  to  the  race  than 
the  virus  was  . . .” 

“Might  not  be  such  a bad  idea 
for  Morua,”  the  Red  Doctor  mut- 
tered grimly.  “Well,  what  did  you 
expect  me  to  do — politely  refuse? 
And  have  our  throats  slit  right  on 
the  spot?”  He  grabbed  a pad  and 
began  scribbling.  “We’ve  got  to  do 
something  just  to  keep  alive  for  a 
while.” 

“Yeah,”  said  Wally.  “What,  for 
instance?” 

“Well,  we’ve  got  a little  to  go  on 
just  from  looking  at  them.  They’re 
oxygen-breathers,  which  means 
they  manage  internal  combustion 
of  carbohydrates,  somehow.  From 
the  grey  skin  color  I’d  guess  at  a 
cuprous  or  stannous  heme-protein 
carrying  system.  They’re  carnivores, 
but  god  knows  what  their  protein 
metabolism  is  like — Let’s  get  going 
on  some  of  these  specimens  Aguar 
has  rounded  up  for  us.” 

They  dug  in  frantically.  Under 


89 


normal  conditions  a GPP  ship 
would  send  in  a full  crew  of  tech- 
nicians to  a newly-Contracted 
planet  to  make  the  initial  Bio-sur- 
vey  of  the  indigenous  races.  Bio- 
chemists, physiologists,  anatomists, 
microbiologists,  radiologists — survey 
workers  from  every  Service  would 
examine  and  study  the  new  clients, 
take  them  apart  cell  by  cell  to  see 
what  made  them  tick. 

Certain  basic  principles  were  al- 
ways the  same,  a fact  which  accel- 
erated the  program  considerably. 
Humanoid  or  not,  all  forms  of  life 
had  basic  qualities  in  common. 
Biochemical  reactions  were  bio- 
chemical reactions,  whether  they 
happened  to  occur  in  a wing-crea- 
ture of  Wolf  IV  or  a doctor  from 
Sol  III.  Anatomy  was  a broad  de- 
terminant: a jelly-blob  from  Deneb 
I with  its  fine  skein  of  pulsating 
nerve  fibrils  was  still  just  a jelly- 
blob,  and  would  never  rise  above 
the  level  of  amoeboid  yes-no  re- 
sponse because  of  its  utter  lack  of 
organization.  But  a creature  with 
an  organized  central  nervous  sys- 
tem and  a functional  division  of 
work  among  organ  systems  could 
be  categorized,  tested,  studied,  and 
compared,  and  the  information 
used  in  combating  native  disease. 
Given  no  major  setbacks,  and  full 
cooperation  of  the  natives,  the  job 
only  took  about  six  months  to  do — 

For  the  crew  of  the  Lancet  six 
hours  was  seven  hours  too  long. 
They  herded  cringing  Moruan 
“volunteers”  into  the  little  ship’s 
lab.  Jenkins  handled  external  ex- 
aminations and  blood  and  tissue 
chemistries;  Stone  ran  the  X-ray 
and  pan-endoscopic  examinations. 

90 


After  four  grueling  hours  the  Red 
Doctor  groaned  and  scowled  at  the 
growing  pile  of  data.  “Okay.  It 
seems  that  they’re  vaguely  human- 
oid. And  that’s  about  all  we  can 
say  for  sure.  I think  we’re  wasting 
time.  What  say  we  tackle  the  Wiz- 
ards for  a while?” 

Aguar’s  guards  urged  the  tall 
Moruan  with  the  purple  cap  into 
the  control  room  at  gunpoint,  along 
with  a couple  of  minor  medical 
potentates.  Purple-hat’s  name  was 
Kiz,  and  it  seemed  that  he  wasn’t 
having  any  that  day. 

“Look,”  said  Jenkins  intensely. 
“You’ve  seen  this  illness  before.  We 
haven’t.  So  you  can  at  least  get  us 
started.  What  kind  of  course  does 
it  run?” 

Silence. 

“All  right  then,  what  causes  it? 
Do  you  know?  Bacteria?  Virus? 
Degeneration?” 

Silence. 

Jenkins’  face  was  pale.  “Look, 
boys — ^your  Boss  out  there  is  going 
to  cool  before  long  if  something 
doesn’t  happen  fast — ” His  eyes 
narrowed  on  Kiz.  “Of  course,  that 
might  be  right  up  your  alley — 
how  about  that?  His  Eminence 
bows  out,  somebody  has  to  bow  in, 
right?  Maybe  you,  huh?” 

Kiz  began  sputtering  indignant- 
ly; the  Red  Doctor  cut  him  off.  “It 
adds  up,”  he  said  heatedly.  “You’ve 
got  the  power,  you’ve  got  your 
magic  and  all.  Maybe  you  were  the 
boys  that  turned  thumbs  down  so 
violently  on  the  idea  of  a Hospital 
Earth  Contract,  eh?  Couldn’t  risk 
having  outsiders  cutting  in  on  your 
trade.”  Jenkins  rubbed  his  chin 
thoughtfully.  “But  somehow  it 

ALAN  E.  NOURSE 


seems  to  me  you’d  have  a whale  of 
a lot  more  power  if  you  learned 
how  to  control  this  Pox.” 

Kiz  stopped  sputtering  quite  ab- 
ruptly. He  blinked  at  his  confed- 
erates for  a long  moment.  Then: 
“You’re  an  idiot.  It  can’t  be  done.” 
“Suppose  it  could.” 

“The  Spirit  of  the  Pox  is  too 
strong.  Our  most  powerful  spells 
make  him  laugh.  He  eats  our  pow- 
ders and  drinks  our  potions.  Even 
the  Iron  Circle  won’t  drive  him 
out.” 

“Won’t  it,  now!  Well,  we  have 
iron  needles  and  potions  that  eat 
the  bottoms  out  of  their  jars.  Sup- 
pose they  drive  him  out?” 

The  Moruan  was  visibly  shaken. 
He  held  a whispered  conference 
with  his  henchmen.  “You’ll  show 
us  these  things?”  he  asked  suspi- 
ciously. 

“I’ll  make  a bargain,”  said  Jen- 
kins. “You  give  us  a Contract,  we 
give  you  the  power — ^fair  enough?” 
More  whispers.  Wally  Stone 
tugged  at  Sam’s  sleeve.  “What  do 
you  think  you’re  doing?”  he 
choked.  “These  boys  will  cut  your 
throat  quicker  than  Aguar  will — ” 
“Maybe  not,”  said  Sam.  “Look, 
I’ve  got  an  idea — risky,  but  it 
might  work  if  you’ll  play  along. 
We  can’t  lose  much.” 

The  whispers  stopped  and  Kiz 
nodded  to  the  Red  Doctor.  “All 
right,  we  bargain,”  he  said.  After 
you  show  us.” 

“Now  or  never.”  Jenkins  threw 
open  the  door  and  nodded  to  the 
guards.  “I’ll  be  in  the  sickroom  in  a 
very  short  while.  If  you’re  with  me. 
I’ll  see  you  there.  If  not — ” He  fin- 
gered his  throat  suggestively. 

RX 


As  soon  as  they  had  gone  Jenkins 
dived  into  the  storeroom  and  began 
throwing  flasks  and  bottles  into  a 
black  bag.  Wally  Stone  watched 
him  in  bewilderment.  “You’re 
going  to  kill  him,”  he  moaned. 
“Prayers,  promises,  pills  and  post- 
mortems. That’s  the  Medical  serv- 
ice for  you.” 

Sam  grinned.  “Maybe  you  should 
operate  on  him.  That  would  open 
their  eyes  all  right.” 

“No  thanks,  not  me.  This  is  a 
medical  case  and  it’s  all  yours. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?” 
“Stay  here  and  try  your  damned- 
est to  get  through  to  HQ,”  said 
Sam  grimly.  “Tell  them  to  send 
an  armada,  because  we’re  liable  to 
need  one  in  the  next  few  hours — ” 


IF  THE  TENTH  Son  of  a Tenth 
Son  had  looked  bad  before, 
three  hours  had  witnessed  no  im- 
provement. The  potentate’s  skin 
had  turned  from  grey  to  a pasty 
green  as  he  lay  panting  on  the  bed. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  strength 
enough  even  to  groan,  and  his 
eyes  were  glazed. 

Outside  the  royal  chambers  Jen- 
kins found  a group  of  green-clad 
mourners,  wailing  like  banshees 
and  tearing  out  their  fur  in  great 
grey  chunks.  They  stood  about  a 
flaming  brazier;  as  Jenkins  entered 
the  sickroom  the  wails  rose  ten 
decibels  and  took  on  a howUng-dog 
quality. 

Aguar  met  him  at  the  door.  “He’s 
dying,”  he  roared  angrily.  “Why 
don’t  you  do  something?  Every  hour 
he  sinks  more  rapidly,  and  aJl  you 
do  is  poke  holes  in  the  healthy 


91 


ones!  And  then  you  send  in  this 
bag  of  bones  again — ” He  glowered 
at  the  tall  purple-capped  figure 
bending  over  the  bed. 

Jenkins  looked  sharply  at  Kiz, 
and  the  wizard  nodded  his  head 
slowly.  “Try  being  quiet  for  a 
while,”  Jenkins  said  to  Aguar. 
“We’re  going  to  cure  the  Boss 
here.”  Solemnly  he  slipped  off  his 
scarlet  tunic  and  cap  and  laid  them 
on  a bench,  then  set  his  black  bag 
carefully  on  the  floor  and  threw  it 
open.  “First  off,  get  rid  of  those 
things.”  He  pointed  to  the  braziers 
at  the  bedside.  “They’re  enough  to 
give  anybody  a headache.  And  tell 
those  people  outside  to  stop  the 
racket.  How  can  they  expect  the 
Spirit  of  the  Pox  to  come  out  of 
His  Eminence  when  they’re  raising 
a din  like  that?” 

Aguar’s  eyes  widened  for  a 
moment  as  he  hesitated;  then  he 
threw  open  the  door  and  screamed 
a command.  The  wailing  stopped 
as  though  a switch  had  been 
thrown.  As  a couple  of  cowering 
guards  crept  in  to  remove  the 
braziers.  Red  Doctor  Jenkins  drew 
the  wizard  aside. 

“Tell  me  what  spells  you’ve  al- 
ready used.” 

Hurriedly,  Kiz  began  enumerat- 
ing, ticking  off  items  on  hairy 
fingers.  As  he  talked  Jenkins  dug 
into  the  black  bag  and  started  as- 
sembling a liter  flask,  tubing  and 
needles. 

“First  we  brewed  witches’  root  for 
seven  hours  and  poured  it  over  his 
belly.  When  the  Pox  appeared  in 
spite  of  this  we  lit  three  red  candles 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  beat  His 
Eminence  steadily  for  one  hour 

92 


out  of  four,  with  new  rawhide. 
When  His  Eminence  protested 
this,  we  were  certain  the  Spirit  had 
possessed  him,  so  we  beat  him  one 
hour  out  of  two — ” 

Jenkins  winced  as  the  account- 
ing of  cabalistic  clap-trap  con- 
tinued. His  Eminence,  he  reflected, 
must  have  had  the  constitution  of 
an  ox.  He  glanced  over  at  the  pant- 
ing figure  on  the  bed.  “But  doesn’t 
anybody  ever  recover  from  this?” 

“Oh,  yes — if  the  Spirit  that  af- 
flicts them  is  very  small.  Those  are 
the  fortunate  ones.  They  grow  hot 
and  sick,  but  they  still  can  eat  and 
drink — ” The  wizard  broke  off  to 
stare  at  the  bottle-and-tube  ar- 
rangement Jenkins  had  prepared. 
“What’s  that?” 

“I  told  you  about  the  iron 
needles,  didn’t  I?  Hold  this  a mo- 
ment.” Jenkins  handed  him  the 
liter  flask.  “Hold  it  high.”  He 
began  searching  for  a vein  on  the 
patient’s  baggy  arm.  The  Moruan 
equivalent  of  blood  flowed  back 
greenishly  in  the  tube  for  an  in- 
stant as  he  placed  the  needle;  then 
the  flask  began  to  drip  slowly. 

Aguar  let  out  a horrified  scream 
and  raced  from  the  room;  in  a mo- 
ment he  was  back  with  a detach- 
ment of  guards,  all  armed  to  the 
teeth,  and  three  other  Moruan 
physicians  with  their  retinues  of 
apprentices.  Sam  Jenkins  held  up 
lus  hand  for  silence.  He  allowed 
the  first  intravenous  flask  to  pour 
in  rapidly;  the  second  he  adjusted 
to  a steady  drip-drip-drip. 

Next  he  pulled  two  large  bunsen 
burners  and  a gas  tank  from  the 
bag.  These  he  set  up  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  adjusting  ^e  blue  flames 

ALAN  E.  NOURSE 


to  high  spear- tips.  On  the  bedside 
table  he  set  up  a third  with  a flask 
above  it;  into  this  he  poured  some 
water  and  a few  crystals  from  a 
dark  bottle.  In  a moment  the  fluid 
in  the  flask  was  churning  and  boil- 
ing, an  ominous  purple  color. 

Kiz  watched  goggle-eyed. 

“Now!”  said  Jenkins,  pulling  out 
a long  thin  rubber  tube.  “This 
should  annoy  the  Spirit  of  the  Pox 
something  fierce.”  He  popped  the 
tube  into  the  patient’s  mouth.  His 
Eminence  rose  up  with  a gasp, 
choking  and  fighting,  but  the  tube 
went  down.  The  Red  Doctor 
ground  three  white  pills  into 
powder,  mixed  in  some  water,  and 
poured  it  down  the  tube. 

Then  he  stepped  back  to  view 
the  scene,  wiping  cold  perspiration 
from  his  forehead.  He  motioned 
to  Kiz.  “You  see  what  I’m  doing, 
of  course?”  he  said  loudly  enough 
for  Aguar  and  the  guards  to  hear. 

“Oh,  yes — yes!  Indeed,  indeed,” 
said  Kiz. 

“Fine.  Now  this  is  most  im- 
portant.” Jenkins  searched  in  the 
bag  until  he  found  a large  mortar 
which  he  set  down  on  the  floor. 
Squatting  behind  it,  he  began  tap- 
ping it  slowly  with  the  pestle,  in 
perfect  rhythm  with  the  intravenous 
drip  . . . and  waited. 

The  room  was  deathly  still  ex- 
cept for  a heavy  snuffling  sound 
from  His  Eminence  and  the  plink- 
plink  of  the  pestle  on  the  mortar. 
The  flask  of  purple  stuff  gurgled 
quietly.  An  hour  passed,  and  an- 
other. Suddenly  Jenkins  motioned 
to  Kiz.  “His  pulse— quickly!” 

Kiz  scampered  gratefully  over 
to  the  bedside.  “A  hundred  and 


eighty,”  he  whispered. 

Jenkins’  face  darkened.  He 
p>eered  at  the  sick  man  intently. 
“It’s  a bad  sign,”  he  said.  “The 
Spirit  is  furious  at  the  intrusion  of 
an  outsider.”  He  motioned  toward 
the  mortar.  “Can  you  do  this?” 

Without  breaking  the  rhythm 
he  transferred  the  plinking-job  to 
Kiz.  He  changed  the  dwindling 
intravenous  bottle.  “Gall  me  when 
the  bottle  is  empty — or  if  there  is 
any  change.  Whatever  you  do, 
don^t  touch  anything.^^ 

With  that  he  tiptoed  from  the 
room.  Four  murderous-looking 
guards  caught  Aguar’s  eye  and  fol- 
lowed him  out,  swords  bared.  Jen- 
kins sank  down  on  a bench  in  the 
hall  and  fell  asleep  in  an  instant. 

They  woke  him  once,  hours  later, 
to  change  the  intravenous  solution, 
and  he  found  Kiz  still  intently 
pounding  on  the  mortar.  Jenkins 
administered  more  of  the  white 
powder  in  water  down  the  tube, 
and  went  back  to  his  bench.  He 
had  barely  fallen  asleep  again  when 
they  were  rousing  him  with  fright- 
ened voices.  “Quickly!”  Aguar 
cried.  “There’s  been  a terrible 
change!” 

In  the  sickroom  His  Eminence 
was  drenched  with  sweat,  his  face 
glistening  in  the  light  of  the  bun- 
sen  burners.  He  rolled  from  side 
to  side,  groaning  hoarsely.  ^^Faster!'' 
Jenkins  shouted  to  Kiz  at  the  mor- 
tar, and  began  stripping  off  the 
sodden  bedclothes.  “Blankets,  no\v 
— plenty  of  them.” 

The  plink-plink  rose  to  a frantic 
staccato  as  Jenkins  checked  the 
patient’s  vital  signs,  wiped  more 


RX 


93 


sweat  from  his  furJ7  brow.  Quite 
suddenly  His  Eminence  opened 
bleary  eyes,  stared  about  him,  let 
out  a monumental  groan  and  buried 
his  head  in  the  blankets.  In  two 
minutes  he  was  snoring  softly.  His 
face  was  cool  now,  his  heart-beat 
slow  and  regular. 

Jenkins  snatched  the  mortar 
from  Kiz,  and  with  a wild  flourish 
smashed  it  on  the  stone  floor.  Then 
he  grabbed  the  wizard’s  paw,  rais- 
ing it  high.  “You’ve  done  well!” 
he  cried  to  the  bewildered  phy- 
sician. “It’s  over  now — the  Spirit 
has  departed.  His  Eminence  will 
recover.” 


They  escorted  him  in  tri- 
umphal procession  back  to  the 
Lancet,  where  Wally  Stone  stared 
in  disbelief  as  Jenkins  and  Kiz 
bowed  and  hugged  each  other  like 
long-lost  brothers  at  a sad  fare- 
well. “I  finally  got  through  to 
somebody  at  HQ,”  he  said  as  the 
Red  Doctor  climbed  aboard.  “It’ll 
take  them  twenty  days  at  least,  to 
get  help,  considering  that  Morua 
is  not  a Contract  planet  and  we’re 
not  supposed  to  be  here  in  the  first 
place,  but  that’s  the  best  they  can 
do  . , 

“Tell  them  to  forget  the  armada,” 
said  Jenkins,  grinning.  “And  any- 
way, they’ve  got  things  all  wrong 
back  at  HQ.”  He  brandished  a huge 
roll  of  parchment,  stricken  through 
with  the  colors  of  the  seven  Medi- 
cal Services  of  Hospital  Earth. 
“Take  a look,  my  boy — the  juiciest 
Medical  Services  Contract  that’s 
been  written  in  three  centuries — ” 
He  tossed  the  Contract  in  the  dry- 

94 


storage  locker  with  a sigh.  “Old 
Kiz  just  finished  his  first  lesson,  and 
he’s  still  wondering  what  went 
on — ” 

“So  am  I,”  said  the  Green 
Doctor  suspiciously. 

“It  was  simple.  We  cured  His 
Eminence  of  the  Pox.” 

“With  what?  Incantations?” 

“Oh,  the  incantations  were  for 
the  doctors/"  said  Jenkins.  “They 
expected  them,  obviously,  since 
that  was  the  only  level  of  medicine 
they  could  understand.  And  inci- 
dentally, the  only  level  that  could 
possibly  get  us  a Contract.  Anyway, 
I couldn’t  do  very  much  else, 
under  the  circumstances,  except 
for  a little  supportive  therapy.  Witn- 
out  a Bio-survey  we  were  ham- 
strung. But  whatever  the  Pox  is, 
it  obviously  involves  fever,  starva- 
tion and  dehydration.  I knew  that 
His  Eminence  could  assimilate 
carbohydrates,  and  I took  a long 
gamble  that  an  antipyretic  wouldn’t 
hurt  him  too  much — ” 

Wally  Stone’s  jaw  sagged.  “So 
you  treated  him  with  sugar-water 
and  aspirin,”  he  said  weakly.  “And 
on  that  you  risked  our  necks.” 

“Not  quite,”  said  the  Red  Doc- 
tor. “You’re  forgetting  that  I had 
one  other  prescription  to  use — the 
oldest,  most  trustworthy  healer-of- 
all-ills  known  to  medicine,  just  as 
potent  now  as  it  was  a thousand 
years  ago.  Without  it.  Hospital 
Earth  might  just  as  well  pack  up 
her  little  black  bag  and  go  home.” 
He  smiled  into  the  mirror  as  he 
adjusted  the  scarlet  band  of  the 
Red  Service  across  his  shoulders. 
“We  call  it  Tincture  of  Time,”  he 
said.  END 


This  may  prove  to  you  that 
Television  can  change  your 
life  more  than  you  think! 


THE  POORS 

BY  HARRY  LORAYNE 


Illustrated  by  Paul  Orban 


The  world  newspapers  had 
heralded  the  event  for  months. 
^‘The  First  Personal  Visit  from 
Outer  Space”  was  the  most  im- 
portant headline  of  the  decade. 
Now  there  were  perhaps  sixty 
thousand  people  crowding  behind 


95 


ropes  and  guards  at  the  Earth  In- 
terspace Airport,  waiting  patiently 
for  Mr.  Kramvit  of  Planet  Six. 

Fourth  Vice  President  Vincent 
J.  Carrowick  had  been  selected  to 
be  Mr.  Kramvit’s  guide  for  the 
length  of  his  visit.  He  was  waiting 
now,  with  Secretary  Gordon,  in 
the  airport’s  executive  office. 

Carrowick  spoke  first,  “Well, 
this  is  it.  I’ve  spoken  to  Kramvit  at 
least  eight  times  on  the  Vidcope 
phone,  but  I’m  as  nervous  as  a 
contestant  right  now.” 

Gordon  eyed  the  screen  which 
was  noting  the  ship’s  approach.  “I 
don’t  see  why  you  should  be.  You 
know  what  he’s  like  basically.  Their 
bodies  and  physical  capabilities  are 
the  same  as  ours,  and  most  of  the 
people  of  Six  speak  English  almost 
as  well  as  we  do,  by  now.” 

He  looked  at  Carrowick,  “Are 
their  Vidcopes  going  to  stay  on 
Kramvit  during  his  entire  visit?” 

Carrowick  spoke  slowly,  “Yes. 
At  least  they’re  going  to  try;  on 
all  six  of  the  Planets.  Kramvit’s 
going  to  carry  a pin  microphone 
on  his  person  all  the  time.  So  they 
should  see  and  hear  us  no  matter 
where  we  are.” 

“How  long  do  you  intend  to  be 
out  of  the  country  with  him?” 
asked  Gordon. 

“Well,  most  of  his  time  will  be 
spent  here,  visiting  all  fifty-three 
states.  We’ll  take  one  cruise  to  pay 
token  visits  to  the  heads  of  all 
countries  first,  then  back  here  until 
he  goes  home.  Hey!  He’s  landing, 
let’s  go!” 

. . . After  over  an  hour  of  wel- 
coming speeches,  photographs  and 
newspaper  reporters,  Marryl  Kram- 

96 


vit  was  alone  in  the  executive  of- 
fice with  Vice  President  Carrowick 
and  Secretary  Gordon. 

“If  we  didn’t  know  you  were 
from  Six,  we  would  certainly  take 
you  for  an  Earthman,”  Carrowick 
was  saying,  “Why,  your  clothes, 
your  coloring,  ever^hing  about 
you  is  just  the  same!” 

Kramvit  smiled  and  said,  “Well, 
thank  you.  Physically,  of  course,  we 
are  the  same.  The  clothes — ^well, 
ours  are  quite  a bit  different,  as 
you  know.  I had  these  made  by  a 
superb  tailor  who  copied  them 
from  our  Vidcope  screens. 

“Many  of  our  females,”  Kramvit 
continued,  “have  already  started  to 
wear  some  of  your  ladies’  styles, 
and  quite  becoming  they  are.” 
Carrowick  put  on  his  cloak,  and 
said,  “Well,  let’s  be  on  our  way. 
You’re  to  meet  our  President  for 
lunch,  and  then  we  start  our  tour, 
if  that’s  all  right  with  you.” 

“Why,  of  course,  that’s  why  I’m 
here,  and  I’m  anxious  to  see  your 
world.  Particularly  America.” 

The  trip  around  the  world  had 
gone  as  smoothly  as  could  be  ex- 
pected. Were  it  not  for  the  multi- 
tudes that  gathered  at  each  air- 
port in  order  to  catch  a glimpse  of 
Kramvit,  it  would  have  been  just 
perfect.  Kramvit,  however,  was  as 
cordial  to  the  throngs  as  he  was  to 
the  heads  of  their  respective  coun- 
tries. He  was  a fine  good  will  am- 
bassador. A little  flicker  of  dis- 
appointment was  usually  evident 
when  the  people  saw  for  themselves 
that  this  man  from  another  world 
looked  and  acted  just  as  they  did. 
All  in  all,  Carrowick  was  quite 

HARRY  LORAYNE 


pleased,  and  he  and  Kramvit  were 
now  in  the  Vincent  and  Marryl 
stage,  except  in  public. 

“Well,  you’ve  been  in  most  of 
the  countries  of  the  Earth,”  said 
Carrowick,  as  they  relaxed  in  the 
private  plane,  “and  visited  forty  of 
our  States  of  America.  What  do 
you  think,  Marryl?” 

“I’m  pleased,  of  course.”  an- 
swered Kramvit.  “You’re  aware, 
I’m  sure,  Vincent,  that  Six  and  the 
other  five  planets  of  the  Orb  are 
a bit  farther  advanced  than  Earth. 
But,  I don’t  think  it  will  be  very 
long  before  you’re  up  to  us. 

“I’ve  been  able  to  understand  al- 
most everything  I’ve  seen,”  he  con- 
tinued, “and  I’ve  made  notes  of 
what  I couldn’t  understand;  one 
thing y Vincent,  you  haven’t  ex- 
plained to  me  at  all.” 

“What’s  that?” 

“Well,  so  far  as  I can  see,  there 
are  only  two  economic  classes  here 
on  Earth.  I’ve  seen  what  appear  to 
me  to  be  only  very  wealthy  people 
and  very,  very  poor  people.  I’ve 
also  noticed,”  here  Kramvit  smiled, 
“that  you  have  sort  of  avoided  these 
poor  people,  and  what  I assume  to 
be  their  dwellings.  I’ve  seen 
glimpses  of  the  squalor  and  terribly 
poor  sections  in  each  of  your  states 
so  far.” 

Carrowick  seemed  a bit  shocked, 
but  Kramvit  continued.  “Also,  you 
have  addressed  almost  all  of  the 
working  people  with  whom  we’ve 
been  in  contact  as  Poor  Mr.  Jones 
and  Poor  Miss  Smith,  and  so  on. 
While  those  of  the  wealthy  class, 
you  simply  addressed  as  Mr.  or 
Mrs.  Why?” 

Carrowick  was  shocked.  “Didn’t 


you  know?  No,  I see  you  really 
didn’t.  I’m  terribly  sony,  Marryl, 
we  here  on  Earth  take  it  so  much 
for  granted,  and  I assumed  it  was 
the  same  all  over  the  Orb.” 

“No,  I don’t  know  what  you 
mean,”  said  Kramvit,  “on  Six  and 
the  others,  we  have  our  quota  of 
poor  people.  We  also  have  a middle 
class,  (in  which  I think  I would 
belong)  and  some  very  wealthy 
people.  But  the  definite  dividing 
line  here,  I don’t  understand. 

“I  know  some  of  your  ancient 
history,  but  I’ve  noticed  complete 
integration  wherever  I’ve  been.  I’ve 
seen  absolutely  no  discrimination  as 
far  as  color,  faith  or  religion  is 
concerned.  I saw  no  caste  system 
at  all,  even  in  India,  and  inter- 
marriage, it  seems,  has  become  com- 
pletely acceptable.” 

“That  is  so,”  interrupted  Car- 
rowick. “We’ve  had  no  such  preju- 
dice at  all  as  long  as  I’ve  been 
alive.  It  has  avoided  a lot  of 
trouble.  Nobody  has  been  able  to 
think  up  a reason  for  a war,  since.” 
“Then  why,”  asked  Kramvit, 
“have  I seen  these  Poors,  as  you 
call  them,  sitting  only  in  the  rear 
of  busses?  Why  have  I not  seen  one 
of  these  unfortunate  looking  people 
in  any  of  the  restaurants  in  which 
we’ve  eaten,  or  for  that  matter,  in 
most  any  public  place?” 

“The  reason  for  them  not  being 
in  any  of  the  restaurants  is  simple. 
They  can’t  afford  the  prices. 
Haven’t  you  noticed  all  the  Vid- 
cope,  or  V.C.  centers  here?” 

“Yes,  I have.” 

“You’ve  seen  some  of  the  V.C. 
shows,  haven’t  you?” 

“I  didn’t  pay  much  attention  to 


THE  POORS 


97 


them,”  answered  Kramvit.  “Fm 
not  much  for  V.C.  Incidentally,  we 
call  it  T.V.,  for  television,  at  home. 
Many  of  our  people  have  become 
quite  addicted  to  it  in  the  last 
few  years.  I can  take  it  or  leave 
it  alone.  Usually  the  latter,  Fm 
airaid.” 

Carrowick  asked,  “Aren’t  all  your 
shows  Qua  shows?” 

“Fm  sorry,  what  is  a Qua  show?” 
“You’re  jesting,  of  course,” 
laughed  Carrowi^.  “They  were 
once  called  Quiz  shows.  Now, 
they’re  Quas,  for  question  and 
answer,  I guess.” 

“Oh,  yes,”  said  Kramvit,  “we 
do  have  many  of  those.” 

“Why,  that’s  all  we  have  here, 
on  commercial  V.C.”  exclaimed 
Carrowick.  “And,  there’s  the  ob- 
vious answer  to  your  original  ques- 
tion!” 

“The  answer?  Fm  sorry,  I don’t 
see  what  you  mean.” 

“It’s  simple,”  said  Carrowick. 
“The  Poors  are  people  who  have 
never  been  a contestant  on  a Qua 
show!  The  wealthy  are  those  who 
either  have  been  winners,  or  whose 
ancestors  were.” 

It  was  Kramvit’s  turn  to  be 
shocked.  “I  don’t  believe  it.” 

“Oh,  yes,  it’s  true,”  said  Car- 
rowick. “Of  course,  some  of  the 
Poors  have  been  contestants,  but 
didn’t  win.” 

Kramvit  was  staring  at  Car- 
rowick. “You  are  quite  serious, 
aren’t  you?” 

“Of  course,”  answered  Carro- 
wick, “the  situation  has  been  so,  for 
perhaps  two  hundred  years — ^we’ve 
come  to  take  it  for  what  it  is.” 
“I’ll  wager  that  the  Poors  don’t 


take  it  quite  as  calmly  as  you  do. 
Don’t  tell  me  that  they’re  satis- 
fied with  their  position.” 

“I  wouldn’t  say  they  were  satis- 
fied,” was  the  answer,  “but  they 
know  no  other  way  of  life,  and 
don’t  have  much  choice  in  the 
matter.” 

Kramvit  was  finding  it  difficult 
to  picture  the  situation.  “Well,  as 
I’ve  told  you,”  he  said,  “we  have 
T.V.  on  Six,  but  we’ve  been  stress- 
ing variety  and  drama  shows.  Don’t 
you  have  any  big  V.C.  stars,  like 
comedians  or  singers  here?” 

“No,  we  don’t.  I’ve  never  seen 
any  variety  or  drama  shows  on 
V.C.” 

“I’m  surprised.  You  see,  we  have 
been  using  all  the  air  time,  or  most 
of  it,  for  entertainment  purposes. 
Commercially,  T.V.  is  just  a baby 
with  us.  We’ve  been  using  it  much 
longer  than  you  have,  technically, 
but  not  commercially.  I’d  say  that 
we’ve  had  sponsored  shows  for 
about  fourteen  years.” 

“Oh,  then  it  is  a comparatively 
new  thing  with  you,”  said  Carr- 
owick. “We’ve  had  commercial  Vid- 
cope  for  over  five  hundred  years.” 
Kramvit  shook  his  head.  “I  still 
can’t  see  why  your  Poors  have  to 
live  in  such  poverty.  Don’t  they 
get  paid  on  their  jobs?” 

“Why,  sure  they  do,”  answered 
Carrowick,  “but  their  rate  of  pay 
is  not  particularly  high.  You  see, 
only  the  Poors  do  all  the  menial 
and  service  work;  aside  from  high 
service  positions  like  government 
work,  of  course.  There  are  so  many 
Poors  and  so  few  jobs  for  them, 
that  those  that  work  are  little 
better  off  than  those  that  don’t.” 


98 


HARRY  LORAYNE 


“I  see,”  said  Kramvit,  “and  is 
there  no  protection  for  these  un- 
employed? I mean  Social  Security 
or  unemplyment  insurance,  which 
I know  you  did  have  a long  time 
ago. 

“No,  there  isn’t.  We  had  to  stop 
that  because  if  we  kept  it  up  we’d 
have  no  workers  at  all.”  replied 
Carrowick.  “Believe  me,  Marryl,  I 
don’t  particularly  like  the  situation. 
We’ve  tried  integration  in  one  or 
two  sections,  but  only  riots  resulted. 
I think  that  eventually  we’ll  eli- 
minate some  of  the  prejudices,  but 
it  can’t  be  pushed  or  hurried.  It’ll 
take  many  years  to  do  it.  I’m  sure 
I won’t  live  to  see  it  gone  com- 
pletely.” 

“And,”  asked  Kramvit,  “have 
you  been  a winner  on  a Qua  show?” 
“Oh,  no.  I’m  not  one  of  those 
nouveau  riche;  my  great  grand- 
father won  eight  million  dollars, 
tax  free,  when  he  was  just  a boy. 
That  took  care  of  us,  and  will  take 
care  of  us  from  here  on  in.” 

“I  see,”  said  Kramvit.  “Vincent, 
I want  to  visit  some  of  these  people 
in  their  homes.  Will  you  take  me?” 
Carrowick  was  shocked  again.  “I 
don’t  think  you’ll  enjoy  it,  Marryl. 
Do  you  really  feel  it’s  necessary?” 
“Please  don’t  refuse  me,  Vincent. 
I do  feel  it’s  important.  I’ve  under- 
stood almost  everything  I’ve  seen 
here  on  Earth.  Either  because  we’ve 
been  faced  with  it  ourselves  on 
Six,  or  I’ve  read  about  it.  But  this 
is  entirely  new  to  me.” 

“All  right”  " agreed  Carrowick 
reluctantly.  “I’m  supposed  to  show 
you  anything  you  want  to  see,  but 
you  won’t  like  it.” 

“Let  me  be  the  judge  of  that.” 


HEY  HAD  RIDDEN  to  Ae 
end  of  the  upper  level  moving 
street  in  comfortable  armchairs.  All 
of  Carrowick’s  arguments  couldn’t 
swerve  Kramvit  from  his  idea  of 
visiting  some  Poors.  Kramvit  was 
just  about  through  with  his  ex- 
planation of  how  all  the  automo- 
biles on  Six  drove  underground,  and 
didn’t  have  to  use  the  lower  street 
level,  as  they  did  here;  when  they 
came  to  the  end  of  the  moving 
street. 

Now  they  were  both  walking 
through  the  filthy,  garbage  laden 
streets  of  the  Poors’  village.  The 
smell  wrinkled  Carrowick’s  nose, 
and  he  was  not  displeased  to  see 
that  Kramvit  wasn’t  quite  enjoy- 
ing it,  either. 

“Doesn’t  the  sanitation  depart- 
ment know  about  this?”  asked 
Kramvit.  “Don’t  they  ever  remove 
this  dirt?” 

“No,”  answered  Carrowick,  “the 
Poors  have  to  carry  it  to  appointed 
garbage  dumps  themselves.  They 
let  it  pile  up  until  even  they  can’t 
stand  it,  then  they  usually  get  rid 
of  some  of  it.” 

He  went  on  to  explain  that  in 
all  the  cities,  except  in  Poor  villages, 
all  garbage  recepticles  led  to  giant 
imderground  incinerators.  Here  the 
fires  burned  continually.  But  in  the 
hot  weather,  the  heat  from  these 
fires  was  used  as  power  to  run  an 
underground  air  conditioner,  so 
that  all  the  streets  were  cooled.  In 
the  wintertime,  of  course,  these 
same  fires  warmed  the  cities  and 
highways. 

As  they  walked,  they  were  both 
aware  of  the  many  Poors  scrounging 
and  searching  in  the  debris.  They 


THE  PCX)RS 


99 


were  also  aware  of  the  silence  that 
fell  as  they  neared  groups  of  people. 
The  Poors  just  stared  at  them,  and 
talked  excitedly  when  they  were 
out  of  earshot. 

“They’re  not  used  to  seeing  any 
of  us  in  their  villages,”  remarked 
Carrowick. 

Kramvit  smiled,  somewhat  bit- 
terly, it  seemed  to  Carrowick,  “No, 
I shouldn’t  think  they  would  be.” 
As  they  rounded  a corner,  Kram- 
vit pointed  to  a car  parked  about  a 
hundred  feet  away.  It  was  almost 
leaning  against  a broken  down 
shack,  and  was  so  dirty  that  it  was 
impossible  to  make  out  its  color. 

“How  did  that  get  here,  Vincent? 
Surely,  nobody  here  can  afford  a 
car.” 

Carrowick  laughed,  “No,  they 
can’t.  That  happens  to  be  this 
year’s  Sputzmobile,  one  of  our  most 
expensive  cars.  Although  you 
wouldn’t  know  it  from  the  looks 
of  that  one.  They  are  given  as 
consolation  prizes  to  losers  on  al- 
most all  the  larger  Qua  shows.” 

“I  see.  Why  don’t  those  people 
sell  the  cars?  It  seems  to  me  they 
could  use  the  money.” 

“I  guess  they  could,”  answered 
Carrowick.  “But  to  whom  could 
they  sell  it?  Very  few  of  us  ever 
buy  a second  hand  car.  We  all 
change  our  cars  as  soon  as  the  new 
ones  appear.  Anyway,  most  of  the 
losers  want  to  keep  them ; they 
consider  it  a mark  of  distinction.” 
He  frowned,  and  continued, 
“They  drive  them  around  the  vil- 
lages whenever  they  can  beg,  bor- 
row or  steal  some  regular  grade 
atomic  pellets.  And,  whenever  they 
can  maneuver  through  these  streets. 

100 


Those  that  own  them  sort  of  look 
down  their  noses  at  the  other 
Poors.  They  consider  themselves 
aristocrats  of  their  village,  because 
they,  at  least,  have  been  called  to 
appear  on  a Qua.  Actually,  they’re 
to  be  pitied,  they’re  worse  off  than 
the  others.” 

“Why  is  that?”  asked  Kramvit. 

“Well,  once  they’ve  appeared  on 
a Qua  show,  and  lost,  they’ll  usual- 
ly never  be  asked  again.  That’s 
the  worst  of  it,  since  they  have  noth- 
ing more  to  look  forward  to.  Also, 
I believe  that  most  of  the  Poors 
leave  whatever  jobs  they  may  have, 
as  soon  as  they  get  the  call.  They 
feel  it’s  beneath  their  dignity  some- 
how. No  Poor  that  gets  on  a Qua 
ever  expects  to  lose.  Of  course, 
once  they  do  lose,  they  can’t  get 
their  jobs  back.  Because  when  they 
leave  it’s  like  creating  a vacuum — 
all  the  Poors  in  the  vicinity  flock 
to  apply  for  his  position.” 

They  were  just  adjacent  to  one 
of  the  Poors’  houses  at  the  moment, 
and  Kramvit  asked  if  he  could  visit 
the  people  that  lived  there.  Car- 
rowick said  he  could,  but  he 
doubted  if  they’d  find  anyone  home. 
It  was  after  four  o’clock,  and  the 
large  network  Quas  had  already  be- 
gun. All  the  Poors  that  could  navi- 
gate would  be  at  the  large  open 
air  V.G.  centers,  which  were  usual- 
ly located  near  the  garbage  dumps. 

These  centers  were  sometimes 
miles  away  from  many  of  the  Poors, 
but  that’s  where  they  were,  no 
matter  what  the  weather,  from 
four  in  the  afternoon  to  eleven  at 
night,  when  the  Quas  finished  and 
the  news  flashes  began. 

These  centers  consisted  of  a large 

HARRY  LORAYNE 


empty  lot,  many  of  which  got  the 
overflow  from  the  adjacent  garbage 
dumps,  with  two  scopes  seemingly 
suspended  about  six  feet  off  the 
ground  in  the  middle.  They  were 
rectangular;  about  five  feet  long, 
and  four  feet  wide.  Only  a little 
over  an  inch  thick,  the  pictures  ap- 
peared on  both  sides  of  each  scope. 
They  were  at  right  angles  to  each 
other,  so  that  the  picture  could 
be  seen  from  any  part  of  the  lot. 

Carrowick  knocked  on  the  old 
wooden  door.  There  was  no  answer, 
and  they  were  about  to  turn  away, 
when  the  door  opened  creakily  to 
display  an  elderly  man.  He  was 
clean,  except  for  the  dirty  rags 
that  were  tied  around  his  throat. 

Carrowick  explained  who  they 
were,  and  the  elderly  gentleman 
invited  them  in. 

“Come  in,  come  in.  I’m  honored 
by  your  visit,”  he  said  in  a hoarse 
voice.  “Well,  now  I’m  almost  glad 
that  I have  this  bad  throat,  other- 
wise I would  be  at  the  center,  and 
I’d  have  missed  your  visit.  By  the 
way,  my  name  is  Poor  Mr.  Alex 
Smith.” 

The  shack  consisted  of  two 
rooms,  one  of  which  was  obviously 
a bedroom.  Obviously,  because 
there  were  a number  of  flattish 
mounds  of  rags,  straw  and  excel- 
sior on  the  floor,  which  could  serve 
no  other  purpose  than  for  sleeping. 
It  was  completely  devoid  of  any 
furniture.  The  room  they  were  in 
was  the  combination  living-room, 
dining  room  and  kitchen.  A few 
old  chairs,  some  crates  and  a wob- 
bly card  table  on  a bare  floor  just 
about  filled  the  room. 

Carrowick  and  Kramvit  intro- 


duced themselves,  and  Kramvit 
started  to  ask  Poor  Mr.  Smith 
questions.  These  were  all  answered 
eagerly,  and  Kramvit  was  almost 
convinced  that  the  Poors  didn’t 
mind  their  situation  too  much ; 
they  were  all  quite  used  to  it. 

Poor  Mr.  Smith  asked  some 
questions  of  Kramvit  too,  and  was 
answered  good  naturedly.  He 
showed  particular  interest  in  the 
pin  microphone  Kramvit  wore,  and 
seemed  awed  when  he  was  told  that 
he  was  probably  being  seen  and 
heard  by  people  on  Six  at  this  very 
moment. 

While  Carrowick  showed  signs 
of  impatience  over  the  length  of 
the  visit,  Kramvit  asked  Smith, 
“Tell  me,  my  friend,  wouldn’t  you 
like  to  see  some  entertainment  on 
V.C.?  Comedians  or  singers,  or 
dancers,  perhaps?” 

Poor  Mr.  Smith  laughed,  “Why 
no.  Comedians  and  singers?  Who 
wants  to  see  them  when  we  can 
watch  some  lucky  souls  winning 
anywhere  from  one  to  sixty-four 
million  dollars,  or  more.  I remem- 
ber about  forty  years  ago,  Mr. 
Krackel,  our  largest  food  pill  manu- 
facturer at  that  time,  tried  some- 
thing like  that.” 

“Oh,  did  he?” 

“Yes.  He  had  the  biggest  two 
hour  Qua  show  on  the  scopes.  His 
daughter  liked  to  sing,  and  she 
talked  him  into  devoting  the  first 
fifteen  minutes  to  singing.  Well,” 
Smith  laughed,  “that  was  the  last 
time  he  tried  that.  I read  that  the 
ratings  for  the  show  that  evening 
went  down  to  zero.  The  studio 
was  swamped  with  angry  letters. 
Everyone  wanted  to  know  why 

101 


THE  POORS 


fifteen  minutes  of  a good  Qua  show 
was  wasted  with  such  nonsense.” 

Kramvit  smiled  and  said,  “Yes, 
I can  understand  that.  Tell  me. 
Poor  Mr.  Smith,  what  would  you 
do  if  you  won  on  a Qua?” 

“I’d  try  to  help  my  people,  of 
course.  Perhaps  like  Legislator 
Brown.  He’s  an  ex-Poor,  you  know, 
but  he  worked  himself  up  the  hard 
way.  Won  a Qua,  then  studied  and 
studied,  and  finally  made  the  Leg- 
islature. He’s  the  one  that  pass^ 
the  law  to  give  us  our  V.G.  centers. 
He’s  a great  man.” 

“That’s  a worthy  ambition,”  said 
Kramvit. 

“Do  you  people  on  Six  have  Qua 
shows,  too?”  asked  Poor  Mr.  Smith. 

“Yes.  But  not  as  many  as  you 
do.” 

“And  do  you  have  Poors  like  me 
on  your  planet?” 

Kramvit  said  that  they  didn’t, 
and  went  on  to  explain  a little  of 
the  situation  of  Six  and  the  other 
five  planets. 

Poor  Mr.  Smith  was  amazed.  He 
couldn’t  believe  that  there  was  any 
place  that  didn’t  have  Poors. 

“Well,  don’t  let  it  happen,  then,” 
he  said.  “Don’t  do  it.  Don’t  let 
those  Qua  shows  take  over.”  His 
voice  seemed  to  be  getting  stronger, 
or  was  it  just  louder,  now. 

He  leaned  closer  to  Kramvit, 
his  head  only  a foot  away  from  the 
pin  microphone,  and  almost 
shouted,  “Do  you  hear  me?  Don’t 
let  it  happen  to  you.”  He  was  near 
to  sobbing  now.  “Be  smart,  stay 
happy — stop  those  Quas.  They’ll 
only  . . 

Garrowick  practically  pulled 
Kramvit  out  the  door,  and  started 

102 


to  hurry  away. 

“Well,”  said  Kramvit,  “you  told 
me  that  they  didn’t  mind  their 
situation  too  much ; Poor  Mr. 
Smith  almost  had  me  believeing 
the  same  thing,  but  he  sure  didn’t 
convince  me.” 

“He’s  just  a sick,  old  man,”  was 
Garrowick’s  answer. 


RAMVIT  HAD  insisted  on 
visiting  another  Poor  village 
the  next  day.  Earlier,  this  time,  so 
that  they’d  find  most  of  the  people 
home.  After  five  or  six  visits, 
Kramvit  was  persuaded  to  leave  by 
Garrowick,  who  reminded  him  that 
he  was  to  appear  on  Earth’s  larg- 
est Qua  show  himself  that  very 
evening.  Kramvit  didn’t  want  to 
appear,  but  Garrowick  convinced 
him  that  all  preparations  had  been 
made.  This  was  Earth’s  way  of 
honoring  him,  and  he  simply 
mustn’t  and  couldn’t  refuse.  Also, 
his  own  people  would  be  watching 
for  him  on  the  show.  Kramvit  had 
to  agree  to  do  it. 

When  they  had  arrived  at  the 
studio,  Kramvit  was  amazed  at  the 
hustle  and  bustle  that  went  on 
aroimd  them.  The  usual  investiga- 
tions, interviews  and  testing  that 
contestants  went  through  were 
eliminated  for  Kramvit,  since 
he  was  an  honored  guest. 

Air  time  approached  rapidly,  and 
Kramvit  couldn’t  help  feeling  a bit 
apprehensive.  He  wasn’t  used  to  ap- 
pearing before  multitudes  of  this 
size,  and  it  all  made  him  feel  un- 
comfortable. Garrowick  assured 
him  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear; 
this  was  simply  a good  will  ap- 

HARRY  LORAYNE 


pearance.  The  questions  he  would 
have  to  answer  would  all  be  in  the 
science  category,  and  he  should 
have  no  trouble  with  them. 

Finally,  Kramvit  found  himself 
standing  in  the  wings  of  the  vast 
stage.  The  previous  contestant 
was  just  answering  his  last  ten  part 
question.  He  answered  all  the  parts 
correctly,  and  left  the  stage  to  loud 
applause.  Now  the  Master  of 
Ceremonies  asked  who  was  to  be 
the  next  guest.  A booming  voice 
whose  body  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  went  through  a flowery  in- 
troduction of  Marryl  Kramvit.  Two 
beautiful  young  ladies,  dressed  in 
almost  nothing,  appeared  on  each 
side  of  him.  As  the  voice  finished 
the  introduction,  the  girls  all  but 
dragged  him  into  camera  range. 

Kramvit  jumped  with  fright  as 
eight  young  men,  each  over  six 
feet  tall,  heralded  his  entrance 
with  long,  loud  trumpets.  He 
shook  hands  with  the  Master  of 
Ceremonies,  chatted  for  a while, 
and  finally  was  told  to  get  ready  for 
his  questions. 

The  first  group  of  queries  per- 
tained to  his  particular  field,  and 
he  answered  them  correctly  and 
easily.  It  took  about  ten  minutes  to 
arrive  at  the  $10,000  question. 
Kramvit  knew  that  if  and  when  he 
reached  a million  dollars,  he  would 
be  asked  to  come  back  in  a week, 
which  of  course  he  couldn’t  do, 
to  tell  if  he  would  go  for  two  mil- 
lion or  keep  the  one  he  had.  He 
made  a mental  note  to  ask  Carro- 
wick  as  to  the  fate  of  those  who 
stopped  at  one  or  two  million.  He 
wondered  if  they  were  looked  down 
upon  too. 

THE  POORS 


Right  now,  the  M.C.  was  telling 
him  that  he  would  have  to  enter 
the  sound  proof  booth  for  the 
$10,000  question.  The  booth  ap- 
peared from  nowhere,  and  he  was 
escorted  into  it  by  the  two  lovely, 
almost  nude,  young  ladies,  who 
didn’t  seem  to  hear  the  trumpet 
blasts  from  the  eight  young  men. 

When  the  door  of  the  booth 
clicked  shut,  the  booth  moved  out 
and  over  the  studio  audience,  and 
finally  came  to  a stop  in  mid-air. 
There  were  no  wires  or  cables  to 
be  seen  attached  to  the  booth,  but 
this  didn’t  bother  Kramvit,  since 
he  knew  the  principles  involved. 
He  did  feel  quite  ridiculous,  hang- 
ing suspended,  with  hundreds  of 
faces  upturned  to  watch  him. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  they  must 
be  awfully  uncomfortable  with 
their  necks  craned  like  that.  But 
he  knew  that  the  producers  of  the 
show  were  only  interested  in  the 
effect  on  the  home  viewers. 

Kramvit  lost  count  of  the  ques- 
tions he  answered,  but  he  was  now 
being  told  that  he  was  going  for 
$500,000.  A half  million  dollars! 
That  was  the  largest  amount  of 
money  given  away  on  the  biggest 
quiz  show  on  Six;  here  it  was  just 
the  beginning. 

The  question  consisted  of  sixteen 
parts,  and  he  answered  them  with- 
out interruption  until  the  fourteenth 
part.  After  he  gave  his  answer  to 
this  one,  the  M.C.  asked  him  to 
repeat  it.  He  did,  hesitantly,  and 
saw  the  M.C.  look  nervously  to- 
wards the  control  booth. 

“I’m  sorry,  Mr.  Kramvit,  that’s 
not  the  correct  answer.” 

(Continued  on  page  120) 


103 


Illustrated  by  Paul  Orban 


government 


BY  GEORGE  REVELLE 


Brandon  was  looking  at  his  desk  again. 

An  artificial  grin  spread  across  the  narrow  face  of  the 
Secretary  of  Interior  who  was  watching  him  closely.  The 
Secretary’s  pencil-thin  fingers  continued  to  toy  with  the  small, 


104 


Year  after  year  they  came  back,  despite  his 
constant  refusals.  And  still  Brandon  couldn^t 
figure  out  why  he  was  so  important  . . . 


wood  figure  he  was  holding. 
“Brandon,”  he  tried  to  lie  grace- 
fully, “You’re  a card.  A real  card,” 

Brandon  shifted  his  position, 
brought  his  attention  back  to  the 
thin  man  with  the  receding  hair- 
line. He  couldn’t,  for  the  life  of 
of  him,  remember  anything  hu- 
morous he  had  said  or  done.  He 
was  too  tired  to  be  jovial.  The  past 
few  days  had  sapped  his  strength. 
He  was  exhausted  and  there  were 
still  two  more  interviews  scheduled. 

Good  Lord,  he  thought.  Two 
more!  He  found  his  eyes  wander- 
ing back  to  his  desk.  He  would 
never  finish  the  papers  in  time. 
That  would  mean  a severe  penalty. 

“Come  now,  Brandon.  Admit  it. 
You  know  you  want  to  work  for 
us  in  Interior.” 

“Right  now  I don’t  know  any- 
thing,” Brandon  said  wearily.  “My 
head  is  tired  and  clouded.  I can’t 
think  straight.”  He  rubbed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead,  wondering  how 
much  longer  he  would  be  able  to 
continue  to  say  no  to  their  requests. 
He  had  almost  found  himself  agree- 
ing with  the  thin  man  a few  mo- 
ments ago.  That  wasn’t  good. 

Brandon  leaned  back  in  the  con- 
tour chair  and  let  some  of  the 


strength  seep  back  into  his  out- 
stretched legs.  Each  year  at  this 
time  they  would  begin  to  wander 
in  with  their  strange,  outlandish 
offers  of  positions  with  the  govern- 
ment. It  was  perplexing. 

“Why  me?”  he  asked  suddenly. 
“Why  in  Interior?  I know  nothing 
about  such  work?” 

The  thin  man  leaned  foreward, 
“Because  you  are  a good  man,  Bran- 
don. And  we  need  good  men  these 
days.  Government  is  big  business 
and  we  want  the  top  positions 
filled  with  the  best  men  we  can 
get.  Besides,”  the  Secretary  laughed 
softly,  “you’re  wasting  your  time 
playing  with  dolls.” 

“They  aren’t  dolls!”  Brandon 
said  indignantly. 

“So  they  aren’t  dolls,” 

“There  is  a difference,”  Brandon 
insisted.  “You  make  is  sound  as  if 
I’m  in  my  second  childhood.” 

“All  right.  Puppets!”  The  thin 
man  shifted  in  his  chair.  He  ran 
his  lean  fingers  over  the  hand- 
painted  figure  he  was  holding  in 
one  hand.  “But  you  can  see  my 
point.” 

Brandon  shook  his  head.  That 
was  it.  He  couldn’t  see  the  point. 
His  puppets  were  becoming  world 


105 


famous,  the  result  of  reviving  the 
almost  lost  art  of  hand  carving.  He 
was  earning  a fair  living  at  it.  He 
could  see  no  reason  for  a change. 

“Think  of  the  prestige  if  you 
come  with  us.  You  will  be  heading 
a department  of  your  own,”  the 
Secretary  said. 

Brandon  wrinkled  his  brow, 
thinking  of  how  his  name  was  al- 
ready associated  with  his  puppets. 
If  only  they  would  leave  him  alone, 
if  only  there  wasn’t  so  much  paper 
work  waiting  for  him  on  his  desk, 
he  would  be  able  to  spread  out, 
expand,  really  have  a going  busi- 
ness. But  they  had  to  keep  pes- 
tering him  with  worthless  offers  that 
they  knew  he  couldn’t  handle, 
wasting  his  time,  especially  now 
when  time  was  of  the  essence.  The 
paper  work  on  his  desk  had  to  be 
completed  by  midnight.  He  would 
never  finish  it  now. 

Brandon  felt  the  beginning  of  a 
headache.  Because  of  the  paper 
work  he  hadn’t  had  time  to  touch  a 
new  puppet  in  months.  Now  these 
damn  interviews  were  keeping  him 
from  the  desk  work.  It  was  a vicious 
circle  leading  to  ruin. 

“You  will  be  serving  your  Coun- 
try, Brandon,”  the  Secretary  said 
strongly.  “Not  fiddling  with  dolls.” 

“I  told  you  ...” 

The  Secretary  held  up  his  hand. 
“I  know.  Puppets.” 

Brandon  got  up  and  walked  to 
the  window  and  looked  out  at  the 
setting  sun.  It  was  hard  to  define; 
there  were  some  things  words 
couldn’t  explain.  All  the  offers  had 
been  good  ones.  But  a man  had  to 
have  some  rule,  some  yardstick  to 


guide  him.  Brandon  had  his.  He 
wanted  to  be  useful,  that  wasn’t  too 
much  to  ask.  Life  was  too  short  to 
waste  laboring  in  a position  he 
wasn’t  fitted  for.  If  he  took  In- 
terior’s offer  all  that  would  be 
ended.  He  would  be  caught  in  a 
web  which  allowed  no  escape. 

Brandon  turned.  “I’m  afraid,  Mr. 
Secretary^,  that  you  don’t  under- 
stand my  position.  It  isn’t  that  I feel 
above  being  employed  by  the  Presi- 
dent. I have  all  the  resp>ect  in  the 
world  for  him  and  his  office.  I have 
nothing  but  respect  for  you  ...” 
“Then  what  is  it,  Brandon?” 

“I  don’t  think  I would  be  happy 
taking  orders  from  some  one  else.” 
“We  all  have  a boss,  Brandon.” 
“I  haven’t.” 

The  Secretary  grinned.  “You  can 
head  your  own  department.  The 
President  and  myself  will  be  the 
only  ones  you  will  have  to  answer 
to,  I promise.” 

“That’s  what  I mean,”  Brandon 
answered  softly. 

The  Secretary  felt  his  face  flush. 
“You  are  insinuating  that  you  are 
above  working  for  the  President, 
Mr.  Brandon!”  he  said  stiffly. 

“You’re  twisting  words.”  Bran- 
don’s voice  was  determined.  “It’s 
just  that  I like  to  work  alone.  I like 
to  put  my  hat  on  and  go,  whenever, 
and  wherever  I please.” 

The  Secretary  shook  his  head 
“Brandon!  I happen  to  know  that 
you  haven’t  been  off  this  estate, 
this  property  of  yours,  in  the  past 
five  years.” 

“That  doesn’t  alter  a thing.  I can 
go,  anytime  I please.  I have  no 
reason  to  leave  now.  But  when  I do, 
I won’t  feel  obligated,  I won’t  have 

GEORGE  REVELLE 


106 


to  ask  permission.” 

The  Secretary  relaxed.  “You  can 
do  that  in  the  department  any^e 
you  wish.  Visit  the  conservations, 
then,  when  you  are  tired  of  traips- 
ing around,  you  can  come  back  and 
write  up  a report  or  two.”  The  Sec- 
retary cleared  his  throat.  “Just  for 
the  records,  of  course.” 

Brandon  sighed.  “Of  course.  Just 
for  the  records.”  He  brushed  back 
his  thick,  black  hair  and  sat  down. 
Damn  it.  Why  couldn’t  they  leave 
him  alone?  That  was  all  he  wanted, 
to  be  left  alone.  He  was  sick  of  all 
this.  They  knew  he  wasn’t  fitted  to 
be  a clerk  in  any  of  the  depart- 
ments. Yet  they  wasted  his  time 
offering  him  important  positions, 
as  if  the  title  would  persuade  him. 
Why? 

“We  could  outlaw  your  doll- 
making.” the  Secretary  said  casu- 
ally. 

Brandon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
“Harmonics  did  that  with  my  music 
writing,  remember!  I didn’t  always 
do  hand-carving.” 

The  Secretary  remembered.  He 
had  had  an  indirect  hand  in  that.. 
It  had  been  thought  that  if  Bran- 
don was  suddenly  without  income 
he  might  easily  be  persuaded  to 
accept  a position.  They  hadn’t 
counted  on  Brandon’s  resourceful- 
ness, nor  his  stubborness. 

The  thin  man  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  looked  again  at  the  doll  thing 
resting  in  one  hand.  The  man  was 
clever;  there  was  a life-like  quality 
to  the  doll.  Brandon  was  an  artist 
and  it  would  be  a shame  to  take 
him  out  of  circulation.  Yet  what 
could  he  do?  The  President  had 
insisted  on  the  visit  again  this  year, 

PUPPET  GOVERNMENT 


knowing  full  well  that  Brandon 
would  turn  down  the  offer. 

Suddenly,  the  Secretary  felt 
sorry  for  Brandon.  The  man  was 
breaking  down  and  didn’t  realize 
it.  His  face  was  drawn  and  pale. 
He  looked  dog-tired. 

“Won’t  you  change  your  mind, 
Brandon?”  the  Secretary  asked 
softly.  “With  Interior  you  will  have 
an  opportunity  to  get  out  into  the 
sunlight.  It  will  be  a healthy  life 
visiting  the  many  conservations  we 
have  situated  around  the  country; 
it  will  agree  with  you,  I’m  sure.” 

Brandon  sighed.  “I’m  afraid,  Mr. 
Secretary,  that  we  are  both  wasting 
our  time.  I have  a tremendous 
amount  of  paper  work  to  finish  be- 
fore midnight  tonight  and  I am 
tired.  I also  have  a few  more  in- 
terviews before  I can  get  at  it.” 
Brandon  got  up,  “So  if  you  don’t 
mind — ” 

The  thin  man  looked  at  Bran- 
don searchingly.  “Won’t  you  re- 
consider?” 

“I’m  afraid  not,”  Brandon 
answered. 

The  Secretary  paused  at  the  door. 
“See  you  next  year,  then!” 

“Next  year,”  Brandon  answered 
flatly. 


The  secretary  of  interior 

hardly  spoke  to  the  young  man 
waiting  by  his  vehicle.  He  wanted 
to  get  away  from  there  as  soon  as 
possible.  These  yearly  visits  to  Bran- 
don always  upset  him,  made  him 
feel  like  a cad.  It  would  be  days  be- 
fore he  shook  the  unwanted  feel- 
ing. 

“How  did  it  go?”  the  young 

107 


man  asked  eagerly. 

The  Secretary  took  in  the  young- 
ish face,  the  confidence  flowing 
from  the  eyes.  Evans  always  man- 
aged to  give  that  youthful  im- 
pression, yet  he  wasn’t  really  a 
young  man.  In  a way  the  thin  man 
envied  Evans  . . . with  one  ex- 
ception, of  course.  This  would  be 
Evan’s  first  visit  to  Brandon.  Some 
of  the  confidence  would  be  gone 
when  he  walked  out  of  Brandon’s 
house. 

‘T  said  how  did  it  go?”  Evans 
repeated. 

The  Secretary  shrugged  his  thin 
shoulders.  “As  usual.  He  refused.” 

Evans  showed  white,  even  teeth. 
“Is  he  tired?” 

“Very.” 

“Excellent,”  Evans  said  “And  the 
paper  work.  Is  it  worrying  him?” 

The  thin  man  studied  Evans. 
No,  he  didn’t  envy  the  man  any 
longer.  Evans  had  no  feelings;  it 
was  written  on  his  face.  “The  paper 
work  is  worrying  him  to  death.” 
he  heard  himself  say. 

“Wonderful!” 

The  Secretary  became  conscious 
of  the  small  figure  he  was  holding  in 
his  hand.  He  had  walked  out  with 
one  of  Brandon’s  creations!  Sud- 
denly, he  slammed  it  to  the  ground. 
The  paint  chipped  and  cracked. 
The  small  head  rolled  loosely  across 
the  lawn.  Evans  looked  at  him 
queerly. 

“I  think  you  need  a rest,”  the 
young  man  said  softly,  unsmiling. 

“Brandon  is  a good  man.  I hate 
to  see  him  broken.  He  has  a lot  of 
talent.  But  not  for  the  work  we’re 
offering  him.  It  isn’t  right,  grinding 
him  into  the  dirt  the  way  we  are.” 

108 


Evans  leaned  over,  picked  up  the 
broken  puppet.  One  arm  was 
twisted  at  an  odd  angle,  the  clown 
suit  was  tom  and  dirty.  Evans 
tried  to  fit  the  head  back  on  the 
small  body.  Finally  he  succeeded. 

He  looked  at  the  Secretary  of 
Interior.  His  eyes  seemed  different. 
“I  have  a position  he  can  fill  and 
do  a good  job.  He  won’t  refuse. 
I’m  sure.”  Evans  walked  away,  to- 
ward Brandon’s  house,  still  holding 
the  broken  figure. 

Brandon  stood  on  the  veranda 
looking  across  his  small  estate,  in 
the  direction  of  the  city.  The  site  of 
the  government  was  located  there. 
Perhaps  that  was  why  he  was  so 
reluctant;  he  lived  too  close  to  it, 
had  it  around  him  day  in  and 
day  out.  The  Government  was 
ubiquitous,  omnipresent  and  omni- 
potent. It  dominated  every  con- 
versation, every  business,  every  life 
from  birth  to  death.  Lately 
it  even  seemed  that  every  one  he 
came  in  contact  with  held  a posi- 
tion with  some  agency  connected 
with  the  government. 

“Mr.  Brandon!” 

“I  know,”  he  answered  without 
turning.  “You’re  from  Labor.” 
“We’ve  never  met!” 

Brandon  turned  and  took  in  the 
lean  individual  who  called  him- 
self Evans.  Quite  different  from 
the  one  who  had  called  last  year. 
That  one  had  been  old  and  grumpy. 
Brandon’s  lips  parted:  “I  assumed. 
All  the  other  departments  have 
been  here  except  Revenue.  I 
didn’t  see  Wilson  standing  out- 
side; I’ve  heard  he’s  out  of  the 
country.  That  leaves  you.” 

GEORGE  REVELLE 


“You  could  have  been  wrong, 
you  know.”  Evans  said. 

“How?’  Brandon  asked  without 
fully  caring. 

“Revenue  has  been  split.  There 
are  two  departments  now.  Revenue 
and  Taxation.  Taxation  handles 
income  from  taxpayers  only.” 

“Big  deal,”  Brandons  said 
harshly,  remembering  his  desk 
piled  high  with  papers. 

“They  say  you  are  a stubborn 
man,  Brandon.” 

“Stubborn?” 

“Quite.” 

“Let’s  say  I’m  content  with  my 
lot.” 

“Are  you  really,  Brandon?” 

Brandon  took  in  the  young  man’s 
wide  shoulders,  the  face  that  was 
almost  too  young  for  such  a re- 
sponsible position.  For  just  an  in- 
stant he  had  felt  that  this  man 
would  be  different,  that  there  might 
be  a challenge  here.  He  could  see 
he  was  wrong.  The  man  was  going 
to  offer  him  a position. 

“Let’s  get  to  the  point,”  he  said 
hurriedly.  “I’m  happy  making  pup- 
pets and  I feel  no  need  for  a 
change.” 

“Fm  glad  you  are  happy,  Mr. 
Brandon.” 

“Good.  Then  there  is  no  need  to 
continue.  I refuse  your  offer.” 
Brandon  was  getting  irritated.  He 
didn’t  wait  for  an  answer,  he 
walked  past  Evans,  into  the  house. 

He  stood  by  his  desk.  The  pile  of 
papers  was  still  resting  there,  wait- 
ing for  him.  He  had  hoped,  in  some 
magical  way,  that  they  might  have 
vanished.  A foolish  thought,  he 
knew. 

“Income  tax?”  he  heard  Evans 


say  from  his  shoulder. 

Brandon  nodded  wearily.  Evans 
reached  over  and  picked  up  a form. 
He  frowned.  “Complicated!” 
“Each  year  it  gets  worse,”  Bran- 
don said  listlessly. 

“I’ve  never  had  to  file  one,” 
Evans  said. 

Brandon  lifted  one  eyebrow. 
“Government  employees  never 
do.  We  are  paid  a flat  sum  and  our 
subsistance  is  taken  care  of.  Cal- 
culators and  computers  adjust  our 
salary  each  year  in  proportion  to 
the  expense  of  the  government.  We 
have  been  operating  out  of  the  red 
that  way  for  years.  It  works  out 
fine.” 

Brandon  ran  his  hands  through 
the  papers  and  forms.  Why  then 
did  he  have  to  wade  through  this 
mess  each  year  when  it  could  be 
made  so  simple?  He  had  been  stag- 
gering under  the  load. 

“You’re  an  independent,  Bran- 
don,” Evans  said.  “You  stay  in 
business  for  yourself  because  you 
dislike  working  for  someone  else. 
Isn’t  that  right?” 

“You  might  say  that.” 

Evans  dangled  a handful  of 
papers  in  front  of  Brandons’  brown 
eyes.  “You  are  working  for  some- 
one else  now.  The  tax  department.” 
“Not  exactly.  I don’t  have  to 
answer  to  anyone.” 

Evans  snorted.  “Not  even  the  tax 
collector?” 

“Not  unless  I make  an  error,” 
Brandon  said  stubbornly.  ‘^And  I 
won’t.  I’m  becoming  an  expert  on 
this.  When  a man  spends  one  hun- 
dred days  a year  working  on  these 
damn  things  he  learns  quite  a bit. 
There  will  be  no  errors.” 


PUPPET  GOVERNMENT 


109 


“One  hundred  days!”  Evans 
laughed.  “Soon  it’ll  be  every  day  of 
the  year.  Then  where  will  you  be?” 
He  looked  directly  into  Brandon’s 
eyes.  “Can’t  you  see?  You’re  in  the 
web  already,  working  a third  of  the 
year  without  compensation.” 

Evans  pulled  from  his  pocket  the 
the  broken  puppet  he  had  picked 
up  from  the  driveway  outside  Bran- 
don’s house.  He  laid  it  in  front  of 
Brandon  on  the  pile  of  income  tax 
blanks.  “Soon  you’ll  be  without  in- 
come; your  business  will  deteriorate 
from  lack  of  attention.” 

Brandon  said  nothing. 

Evans  moved  to  the  contour 
chair  and  sat  down.  He  closed  his 
eyes.  “You’ve  been  out  of  circu- 
lation a long  time,  Brandon.  The 
world  is  changing.  Government  is 
big  business,  one  of  the  largest,  and 
it’s  expanding.  We  need  more  men, 
good  men.” 

Evans  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  the  ceiling.  “You  said  you’ve 
become  an  expert  on  forms.  Would 
you  consider  taking  a position  as 
head  of  the  tax  department?”  he 
asked  abruptly. 

Brandon  lifted  his  gaze  from  the 
desk.  “I  thought  you  were  with 
labor?” 

“I  could  arrange  it.”  Evans 
closed  his  eyes  again. 

“But  • . 

“Think,  Brandon.  As  chief  of 
the  bureau,  you  won’t  have  to 
answer  to  anyone,  not  even  the 
President.  You’ve  seen  the  mess 
the  forms  have  become.  You  can 
straighten  it  out.” 

“I  don’t  think  . . .” 

“I’ll  have  it  put  in  writing  that 
no  one  wiU  bother  you.” 

no 


Brandon  stared  at  the  papers  on 
his  desk.  For  the  first  time  they 
were  offering  him  a position  he 
understood,  one  he  could  handle.  It 
would  be  a challenge.  He  would  be 
in  a position  to  eliminate  three- 
quarters  of  that  damn  paperwork. 
God  knew  how  many  like  him- 
self were  gradually  getting  snowed 
under  each  year. 

Brandon  played  with  the  puppet. 
The  silly  face  stared  back  at  him 
with  a fixed,  smiling  expression. 
“Tell  me,  Evans,”  he  asked  idly. 
“Why  so  much  effort  to  locate  me 
in  a government  position?  I’ve 
had  no  special  training;  this  is  the 
first  offer  I’m  even  qualified 
enough  to  accept.”  He  lifted  the 
puppet  face  high,  gazed  at  its  face. 
“For  ten  years  I’ve  been  pestered.” 

Evans  laughed  as  he  pulled  a 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket. 
“You  have  determination  and  will 
power.  We  need  that  type  of  nature 
th^e  days  more  than  ever.”  Evans’ 
smile  became  wide  “And  you  will 
be  one  less  taxpayer  we  will  have 
to  worry  about  now.  You’ll  be  on 
our  side.” 

Evans  pushed  all  the  forms  from 
Brandon’s  desk  with  a sweep  of  his 
tanned  hand.  “Forget  all  of  that, 
Brandon,  forever.  No  more  taxes 
for  you.  This  is  the  last  form  you 
will  have  to  sign.  It  appoints  you 
Secretary  of  Taxation,  carte 
blanche.” 

“You  had  all  this  prepared?” 
Brandon  said  in  amazement. 

Evans’  smile  grew  wider.  “We 
knew  you  couldn’t  refuse  an  intel- 
ligent offer,  one  where  you  would 
be  useful.” 

“We!” 


GEORGE  REVELLE 


“The  cabinet  and  myself.” 

Brandon  picked  up  the  pen, 
twisted  it  between  his  fingers. 
Evans  was  right,  of  course.  He 
would  be  useful.  Half  those  damn 
forms  were  filled  with  worthless 
nonsense  that  could  easily  be  elimi- 
nated. Deductions  should  be 
higher;  small,  independent  business 
should  be  given  a break.  And  he 
could  handle  the  job — that  was 
important. 

“Just  sign  on  the  bottom  line,” 
Evans  said  smoothly,  pushing  the 
broken  puppet  out  of  the  way. 

The  puppet  fell  to  the  floor  and 
the  head  came  off  again.  “Forget 
it,”  Evans  said  quickly. 

Brandon  studied  the  other  man’s 
face  before  he  reached  over  and 
picked  up  the  little  figure.  It  was 
a funny  creature  with  a large,  silly- 
looking balloon  nose.  Brandon  han- 
dled it  tenderly,  looking  at  it 
thoughtfully.  Finally  he  said:  “My 
puppets.  What  happens  to  them?” 

“I  don’t  understand?” 

“Children  enjoy  them,”  Brandon 
answered. 

“I’m  afraid  you  don’t  under- 
stand, Brandon,”  Evans  shook  his 
head.  “I’m  offering  you  a full  time 
position.  You  can  make  them — as 
a hobby  of  course — give  them 
away,  but  you  can’t  sell  them. 
That  would  give  you  an  income 
again,  mean  more  tax  forms.” 

“But  I couldn’t  hope  to  pro- 
duce them  for  nothing,”  Brandon 
insisted.  “Not  on  a large  scale,  not 
on  the  fixed  salary  that  you  men- 
tioned!” 

“They  aren’t  important,  Bran- 
don.” 

Brandon’s  lips  became  a firm, 
PUPPET  GOVERNMENT 


straight  line.  For  the  first  time  it 
was  clear  to  him  why  he  had  been 
so  reluctant  to  give  up  his  work. 
His  music  had  pleased  people,  just 
as  his  puppets  were  doing  now.  He 
was  getting  satisfaction  out  of  his 
work.  He  was  giving  people  some- 
thing no  one  else  seemed  to  be 
able  to  give  them.  Accepting  a po- 
sition he  couldn’t  handle,  workmg 
for  someone  else  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it  . , . 

“I’ve  changed  my  mind,”  he  said 
quietly. 

“Changed  your  mind?”  Evans 
stared  at  the  pen  Brandon  had 
carefully  laid  down  on  the  desk; 
disbelief  disfiguring  his  face.  “You 
intend  fighting  that  each  year?”  he 
pointed  at  the  mad  array  of  papers 
he  had  strewn  at  Brandon’s  feet. 
“You’re  willing  to  risk  not  having 
any  time  at  all  to  work  on  your 
puppets  against  security  and  a life 
of  ease?” 

“I’m  willing,”  Brandon  an- 
swered. “Now  I think  you’d  better 
leave  Mr.  , . 

“Evans!” 

“Mr.  Evans.  I might  be  able  to 
finish  these  damn  things  before  the 
midnight  deadline.” 

Evans  opened  bis  mouth  but 
Brandon  was  already  showing  him 
the  way  to  the  door,  shoving  some- 
thing in  his  hand. 


VANS  CLIMBED  into  his  car 
and  slumped  down  on  the  seat 
beside  the  President.  He  looked  at 
the  new  puppet  Brandon  had 
forced  into  his  hand  before  he 
could  refuse. 

“Is  Brandon  Secretary  of  Taxa- 

111 


tion?”  the  President  asked  hope- 
fully. 

Evans  shook  his  head  from  side 
to  side.  What  had  gone  wrong? 
They  had  known  Brandon  was  a 
stubborn  man,  that  was  why 
things  were  done  as  they  were.  The 
offering  of  worthless  positions  had 
been  a feint.  He  should  have 
grabbed  at  something  he  could 
handle.  And  the  tax  forms!  That 
was  supposed  to  be  the  last  straw. 
They  had  been  loaded,  prepared 
just  for  Brandon,  to  break  his  re- 
sistence.  Yet  they  had  failed.  Why? 

“Did  he  suspect?”  The  President 
eyed  Evans. 

“I  don’t  think  so.  Sir.”  Evans 
said.  “I  had  the  pen  in  his  hand. 
He  was  ready  to  sign.  Then  some- 
thing went  wrong.  I can’t  under- 
stand it!” 

The  President  looked  the  other 
way,  found  his  eyes  fastened  on 
his  own  reflection  on  the  window. 
The  cabinet  had  been  wrong  think- 
ing it  was  a job  for  a psychologist 
like  Evans.  Brandon  was  an  indi- 
vidual, a decided  rarity  in  this  day 
and  age. 

“I’m  glad,”  the  President  said 
softly  to  the  glass. 

“What  was  that.  Sir?” 

The  President  turned.  “I  said, 
I’m  glad  he  didn’t  sign.” 

“You  can’t  mean  that.  Sir!” 

“But  I do.” 

“Do  you  realize  what  this  means? 
Brandon  was  the  last  taxpayer. 
We’ve  been  forced  to  operate  an 
entire  bureau  just  to  process  his 
forms.  It’s  the  only  department 
operating  in  the  red.  He’s  the  only 
person  not  employed  by  the  gov- 
ernment, the  only  one  still  operat- 


ing a private  business!” 

Evans  found  himself  clenching 
the  puppet  tightly  in  his  fist.  “We 
will  break  him.  I know  we  wiU. 
Next  year  it  will  take  him  365  days 
to  compute  his  tax.  I promise.” 
“Next  year,”  the  President  said 
firmly,  “Brandon  will  get  a short 
form.  One  that  he  can  complete  in 
ten  minutes.  Do  you  understand, 
Evans?” 

Evans’  forehead  creased.  “I’m 
afraid — ” 

The  President  looked  back  at  his 
reflection  on  the  glass.  “We  don’t 
want  to  make  the  boss  angry  now, 
do  we  Evans?” 

“The  boss,  Sir?” 

“Brandon,  of  course,”  the  Presi- 
dent smiled.  “After  all,  the  govern- 
ment works  for  the  taxpayers, 
Evans — and  Brandon  is  the  last 
taxpayer.  He’s  our  boss,  son.  The 
only  boss  we  have  left.” 

“Mr.  President.  If  I might — ” 
The  President  returned  his  gaze 
to  Evans.  “I  think  we’ve  forgotten 
something  over  these  past  years, 
Evans.  Something  very  important.” 
“What  is  that,  Sir?” 

The  President  removed  the  pup- 
pet from  Evans’  limp  fingers.  “If 
the  sole  puipose  of  the  government 
is  to  serve  the  taxpayers — and  there 
were  no  more — how  could  we  justi- 
fy our  existence  in  office?” 

The  President  ran  his  finger  un- 
der the  chin  of  the  little  puppet, 
“Do  you  mind  if  I keep  this, 
Evans?”  he  asked  softly.  “I’d  like 
to  take  it  home  to  my  granddaugh- 
ter. She’s  never  seen  a puppet,  I’m 
sure  she’ll  love  it.” 

The  tiny  figure  seemed  to  smile 
approvingly.  END 


112 


A revolution  in  astronomy,  second 
only  to  the  invention  of  the  tele- 
scope itself,  is  foreseen  in  electronic 
devices  called  image  converters. 
These  tubes,  now  being  tested  by 
the  Farnsworth  Electronic  Cor- 
poration and  R.C.A.,  promise  to 
increase  ten-fold  the  power  of  in- 
struments in  present  use.  They  will 
also  boost  by  an  equivalent  amount 
the  light-gathering  use  of  all  tele- 
scopes to  which  they  are  attached. 
Image  converters  change  light  to 
electrons,  greatly  multiply  the  num- 
ber of  electrons,  then  change  the 
tiny  negative  particles  back  into 
light  again;  the  light,  much  intensi- 
fied, falls  on  a photographic  plate. 
Routine  use  of  these  converters  for 
photographing  the  heavens  may 
bring  discoveries  which  will  require 
Mankind  to  reconsider  the  universe, 
as  Einstein’s  theory  once  did. 

A ^'five-year  plan"'  for  a manned 
rocket  ship  which  will  cross  half 
the  continent  in  20  minutes  is  now 
in  the  drawing  board  stage.  Dubbed 
the  Griffon,  &e  ship  would  carry  a 
light-weight  pilot,  not  over  150 
pounds,  weigh  more  than  65,000 
pounds  at  take-off,  and  shoot  75 
miles  up  into  space  in  about  five 
seconds.  Then  it  would  level  off, 
reenter  the  atmosphere,  and  glide 


the  rest  of  the  way  to  its  destina- 
tion. The  Griffon  would  have  pro- 
visions for  control  either  by  the 
pilot  or  by  ground  stations.  If  the 
pilot  lost  consciousness  at  any  time 
during  flight,  small  auto-control 
systems  would  take  over  until  he 
recovered.  These  could  be  similar 
to  the  units  developed  for  V-2 
rockets.  The  motor  would  use  a 
combination  of  gasoline  and  liquid 
oxygen  for  fuel;  and  since  the  liquid 
oxygen  would  be  kept  at  300  de- 
grees below  zero  Fahrenheit,  some 
of  it  could  be  used  to  keep  the  ship 
cool.  The  ship  would  be  able  to 
land  at  present  day  airports  and 
would  have  a landing  speed  of 
about  150  miles  per  hour. 

Middle  East  oil  may  be  towed  to  its 
buyers  in  giant  “sausage  skins” 
holding  9,000  tons  when  the  gov- 
ernment-backed experiments  of  two 
Cambridge  University  engineers 
are  completed.  The  hope  of  the 
developers  is  that  the  nylon  oil 
barges,  nicknamed  Nobs,  will  solve 
the  current  oil  tanker  shortage. 
The  plan  is  to  make  an  inner  con- 
tainer of  nylon,  covered  by  a plas- 
tic skin,  one-quarter  to  one-half  an 
inch  thick.  The  completed  “sau- 
sage skin”  tanker,  60  feet  long  and 
weighing  20  tons  empty,  could  then 
be  flown  or  shipped  to  the  oil  port 
and  rolled  around  a drum.  When 
full  of  crude  oil,  the  Nob  would 
be  four-fifths  submerged  and  could 
be  towed  by  a loaded  tanker  or  tug 
at  10  to  15  knots  in  normal  weather 
conditions.  With  a tug  at  each  end, 
it  might  be  possible  to  guide  one 
through  the  Suez  Canal.  The  in- 
ventors are  confident  that  the  bul- 


let-proof  Nob  would  just  bounce 
off  if  it  were  to  hit  a rock  or  dock 
wall  at  the  suggested  speeds. 

In  the  near  future  you  may  be  go- 
ing to  the  doctor  to  get  a periodic 
fever  for  immunization  against  in- 
fluenza-type diseases.  Recent  studies 
have  shown  that  the  danger  factor 
is  only  a small  element  in  the  virus 
and  it  can  emerge  only  through  a 
tiny  “escape  hatch”  in  the  lining 
that  surrounds  the  virus.  Armed 
with  this  knowledge  of  the  struc- 
ture of  the  virus,  biophysicists  think 
it  will  be  possible  to  alter  the  dis- 
ease carriers  and  so  render  them 
harmless.  This  in  turn  could  lead 
to  radically  difTerent  methods  of 
immunization,  such  as  using  dia- 
thermal  machines  to  create  arti- 
ficial fevers  in  people  that  will 
leave  them  immune  to  diseases 
caused  by  viruses. 

A space  ship  that  can  be  made 
cheaply  with  the  know-how  and 
materials  on  hand  was  described 
at  a recent  Rocket  Society  meeting. 
Called  the  “Snooper”  by  the  de- 
signers, the  ship  is  a non-return, 
robot  rocket  propelled  by  ions, 
armed  with  television,  radar,  com- 
munications equipment  and  auxil- 
liary  power  supply  systems.  Since 
the  propulsion  system  obtains  its 
thrust  by  the  electrical  acceleration 
of  ionized  gases  to  extremely  high 
velocities  (657,000  feet  per  second), 
a nuclear  reactor  is  used  to  pro- 
duce the  electrical  field  necessary 
to  accelerate  the  ions.  The  reactor 
would  also  supply  power  for  the 
three-quarters  of  a ton  of  instru- 
ments to  be  carried  by  the  vehicle. 

114 


The  Snooper  would  look  somewhat 
like  a giant  moth  with  wings 
spreading  out  for  66  feet  from  the 
back  end.  The  wings  would  dissi- 
pate the  excess  heat  generated  by 
the  nuclear  reactor.  The  designers 
propose  lifting  the  ion  rocket  into 
an  orbit  around  the  earth  by 
chemical  fuels  similar  to  those 
suggested  for  an  intercontinental 
ballistics  missile.  After  Snooper 
reaches  the  orbit,  the  wings  are 
spread  and  the  instrument  section 
is  extended  far  forward  of  the  re- 
actor to  avoid  radiation  damage. 

An  ultrahigh  speed  camera  that 
can  take  pictures  at  a rate  of 
4,000,000  per  second  has  been  per- 
fected by  Precision  Technology, 
Inc.,  Livermore,  California.  An 
especially  designed  electronic  tube 
called  an  image  converter  is  the 
heart  of  the  camera.  The  tube 
picks  up  light  images  by  means  of  a 
photosensitive  cathode  at  one  end. 
These  images  are  then  transferred 
electronically  to  a viewing  screen 
at  the  other  end,  where  the  picture 
is  recorded  on  film.  By  using  ex- 
tremely short  electrical  pulses, 
the  tube  can  be  turned  on  and  off 
again  almost  instantaneously.  The 
tube  and  the  accompanying  elec- 
tronic circuits  act  both  as  the  cam- 
era’s shutter  and  as  its  means  for 
moving  images  across  the  face  of 
the  stationary  recording  film.  As 
many  as  five  exposures  can  be 
made  on  a single  plate  of  film  with 
exposure  times  as  short  as  20  milli- 
microseconds or  less  than  one-fif- 
tieth of  a millionth  of  a second. 

Army  recruits  may  soon  be  receiv- 
SCIENCE  BRIEFS 


ing  their  shots  from  a spray  gun 
instead  of  a hypodermic  needle. 
The  automatic  jet  injection  syringe 
uses  a high-spe^  spray  that  takes 
less  than  a second  to  penetrate  the 
tissue  beneath  the  skin.  The  hand- 
held gun  is  powered  by  a small 
hydraulic  pump,  connected  to  it  by 
a rubber  hose,  and  can  be  fired 
continuously  until  the  vaccine  bot- 
tle sitting  at  the  back  of  the  gun  is 
empty.  The  gun  can  be  cocked  and 
reloaded  in  a matter  of  six  seconds 
and  no  sterilization  is  needed  be- 
tween injections,  since  the  tip  of 
the  injector  nozzle  does  not  actual- 
ly touch  the  skin.  The  jet  velocity 
of  the  vaccine  is  700  feet  per  sec- 
ond when  it  comes  out  of  the  noz- 
zle and,  though  not  always  pain- 
less, it  causes  less  discomfort  than 
hypodermic  needles. 

Jet  plones  moy  soon  be  given  a 
100-mile-per-hour  boost  through 
the  use  of  an  alloy  that  would  in- 
crease operating  temperatures  in 
jet  engines  about  100  degrees 
Fahrenheit.  Developed  by  the  West- 
inghouse  Electric  Corporation,  the 
metal,  an  alloy  of  iron,  nickel, 
chromium,  molybdenum,  titanium 
and  boron  was  designed  to  help 
push  back  what  is  called  the  “sec- 
ond heat  barrier”  being  met  by 
supersonic  planes.  This  heating  oc- 
curs in  the  engine,  where  white-hot 
gases  from  the  burning  fuel  push 
against  turbine  blades.  Since  a jet 
engine  gets  its  operating  energy  by 
increasing  the  temperature  of  the 
air  passing  through  it,  the  greater 
the  air  temperature  increase  the 
more  thrust  a given  engine  will 
produce  and  the  faster  the  plane 

SCIENCE  BRIEFS 


will  fly.  The  alloy  is  intended  as  a 
structural  material  for  use  in  the 
jet’s  turbine  section,  and  will  en- 
able the  operation  of  jet  engines  to 
be  increased  to  temperatures  much 
higher  than  are  now  possible. 

Window  panes  and  lenses  of  metal 
have  been  developed  by  the  Ray- 
thoen  Manufacturing  Company 
which  allows  invisible  heat  rays 
from  sub-zero  targets  to  reach  a 
supersensitive  infrared  detector. 
Made  of  a silicon  material,  these 
new  optical  parts  may  make  it  pos- 
sible to  detect  enemy  ships,  planes 
and  missiles  from  longer  distances 
in  total  darkness  without  revealing 
the  observer’s  position.  By  “seeing” 
colder  objects,  a plane  equipped 
with  an  infrared  detector  could 
sense  the  relatively  “cold”  parts  of 
a target  craft  like  the  nose  and  the 
wing  sections,  as  well  as  the  warm 
parts  such  as  the  engines.  Such  sys- 
tems would  be  silent  and  would  not 
broadcast  signals  revealing  their 
positions. 

The  Army's  packoge  power  reactor 
has  recently  begun  operation.  It 
is  the  first  of  a new  bre^  of  atomic 
power  plants  that  can  be  trans- 
ported by  air  to  remote  sites,  there 
to  operate  reliably  for  long  periods 
without  new  fuel.  The  present 
pioneer  plant  can  generate  approxi- 
mately 2,000  kilowatts  of  electricity. 
Installed  in  isolated  bases  in  the 
Arctic  and  Antarctic,  such  plants 
will  also  be  able  to  supply  steam 
for  heating  as  a by-product.  The 
power  package  reactor  is  expected 
to  be  as  important  to  land  outposts 
as  the  atomic  submarine. 


115 


Sirs: 

In  nearly  every  science  fiction 
story  I have  ever  read,  in  If  and 
other  magazines,  there  is  one  great 
glaring  anachronism : Man. 

The  century  may  be  the  25th  or 
the  30th.  Earth  is  either  blooming 
like  a garden  spot,  and  out  exploit- 
ing all  the  other  planets;  or  Earth 
is  withering  away,  a victim  of 
atomic  wars  or  simply  too  many 
hydrogen  bomb  tests.  But  has  Man 
changed  since  the  20th  century? 
Not  a whit. 

If  science  is  going  to  save  the 
world  from  itself,  the  saucers,  the 
inter-galaxy  border  disputes,  and  if 
we  are  all  going  to  work  a ten  hour 
week  and  the  Welfare  departments 
are  going  to  take  care  of  us  all,  it 
seems  inevitable  that  Man  is  going 
to  change  a great  deal  in  the  proc- 
ess. Not  only  will  he  grow  fatter, 
taller,  blonder,  cleaner  and  con- 
ceivably dumber,  he  is  going  to 


have  an  entirely  different  batch  of 
pressures  and  react  in  totally  dif- 
ferent ways.  But  does  this  happen 
in  science  fiction  stories?  No! 

Among  the  sciences,  that  of 
gadgetry  is  the  only  one,  and  while 
its  present-day  advance  is  more  ob- 
vious (and  more  frightful)  than 
others,  the  social  sciences  are  gain- 
ing too,  and  it  is  certain  that  the 
children  growing  up  are  a different 
breed  of  cats  than  their  still  de- 
pression-and-war-haunted  parents. 
And  their  children  are  going  to  be 
even  more  strange,  unless  there  are 
more  depressions  and  wars  to  re- 
condition them  to  attitudes  resem- 
bling those  of  present-day  adults. 

If  Man  is  going  to  triumph  over 
his  environment.  Mars  and  the 
saucers,  he  will  probably  lose  what 
is  presently  one  of  his  few  endear- 
ing traits:  his  humility.  If  a man 
with  humility  and  all  its  attendant 
virtues  survives  (to  be  the  hero  of 
a science  fiction  story)  his  back- 
ground will  need  to  be  utterly  un- 
usual. But  this  is  never  pointed  out 
in  a science  fiction  story:  the  boy 
scout  hero  who  knocks  out  the  bad 
guy  is  a '‘normal”  man  for  his  cen- 
tury. And  for  that  matter,  how  did 
the  bad  guy  get  there?  Because  the 
homogeneity  presently  considered  so 
desirable  will  prevent  his  develop- 
ment too.  If  the  sociologists  get 
their  way,  the  world  of  tomorrow  is 
going  to  be  one  sans  hero  or  villain, 
in  which  everybody  works  for  a pa- 
ternal government  or  corporation, 
and  looks  and  thinks  and  talks  just 
like  everybody  else. 

Something  on  which  nearly  all 
the  writers  of  the  genre  agree  is 
that  tomorrow  is  going  to  be  singu- 

HUE  AND  CRY 


116 


buiy  humorless.  All  joke-crackers 
are,  per  se,  suspect  and  looked 
upon  as  a 20th  century  anacluro- 
nism.  Presently,  it  is  true,  a joke 
teller  is  barred  from  serious  office- 
holding, but  must  we  look  upon 
this  as  an  irreversible  trend?  Must 
we  assume  that  we  will  never  have 
another  Mencken,  and  that  the 
gathering  clouds  of  grimness  are 
never  going  to  be  cleared  away? 
Man’s  laughter — and  Man  has 
been  in  some  pretty  tough  spots — 
echoes  down  through  the  centuries; 
I think  that  science  fiction  writers 
condemn  humor  forever  on  too  lit- 
tle evidence. 

But  then  let  us  consider  the 
stories  in  which  Man  has  lost.  He 
has  polluted  his  own  planet  with 
radioactivity,  and  little  Noah-like 
figures  are  seen  departing  in  rattle- 
trap rockets.  But  he  still  hasn’t 
changed  at  all.  With  a stiff  upper 
lip  and  a 20th  century  dignity,  he 
blasts  off  to  another  planet,  there, 
we  may  assume,  to  carry  on  just  as 
before. 

Here  I think  the  writers  err  on 
the  side  of  optimism.  If  Man  is 
content  to  let  his  planet  be  de- 
stroyed, and  by  nobody  but  him- 
self, we  may  feel  safe  in  concluding 
that  he  will  then  be  so  lethargic, 
so  corrupted  and  possibly  so  plain 
disinterested,  that  an  end  to  every- 
thing will  be  the  only  solution. 
Perhfip  he  will  even  retain  a little 
humihty  in  this  case,  and  realize 
that  so  cantankerous  a beast  as 
Man  has  no  business  destroying 
more  than  one  planet. 

The  writers  also  seem  to  be  un- 
inventive in  the  matter  of  govern- 
mental forms.  They  seem  to  believe 

HUE  AND  CRY 


that  there  is  no  choice  except  pres- 
ent-day democracy  or  one  or  an- 
other form  of  dictatorship ; but 
both  of  these  are  fairly  recent  in- 
ventions and  it  doesn’t  seem  pos- 
sible that  Man,  who  so  dearly  loves 
to  invent  things,  isn’t  going  to 
come  up  with  more  variations  on 
the  theme.  It’s  interesting  to  note 
that  the  higher  forms  oi  govern- 
ment that  the  aliens  always  talk 
about  so  evasively  are  possible  only 
because  the  aliens  are  so  highly  de- 
veloped that  they  don’t  need  any 
governing.  But  no  matter  how  far 
mto  tomorrow  a writer  looks,  he 
never  seems  to  think  that  such 
things  can  develope  here.  Man  with 
all  his  foibles,  so  prone  to  err,  and 
consequently  so  lovable,  is  always 
let  off  because  of  a sentimental 
pang  on  the  part  of  the  visiting 
aliens;  for  even  the  aliens  have 
20th  century  humanoid  weaknesses. 

As  Thurber  says,  “The  proper 
study  of  Mankind  is  Man,  says 
Man.” 

— E.  Mueller 
Guanajato,  Gto.,  Mexico 


Dear  Mr.  Quinn: 

Having  just  finished  James 
Gunn’s  GREEN  THUMB  in  the 
April  issue,  I find  that  I cannot 
agree  with  his  contention  that 
“chance  rules  the  universe”.  While 
Heisenberg’s  uncertainty  principle 
does  set  an  “unsuspected  limit  on 
the  accuracy  with  which  we  can  de- 
scribe physical  situations”  does  this 
not  apply  solely  on  the  subatomic 
level?  My  own  reading  and  think- 
ing (as  a sociologist)  on  the  subject 
has  led  me  to  accept  Korzybski’s 

117 


conclusion  that  the  uncertainty 
principle  does  not  abolish  determin- 
ism, but  rather  it  “requires  the 
transforming  of  the  two-valued 
Aristotelian  logic  into  the  infinity- 
valued semantics  of  probability”. 

In  other  words,  “free  will”  is  still 
a legal,  moral  and  cultural  fiction 
(whether  useful  or  otherwise)  and 
science  has  not  yet  reached  the  end 
of  the  road,  simply  because  inde- 
terminism on  the  subatomic  level 
does  not  necessitate  indeterminism 
oVany  other  level.  I would  have 
liked  to  see  the  story  end  with 
Gunn’s  “universal  genius”,  who 
should  have  known  better,  straight- 
ening out  the  overspecialized  physi- 
cist on  the  full  implications  and 
limitations  of  the  Heisenberg  prin- 
ciple. 

Sincerely, 

— Edd  Doerr 

Indianapolis,  Ind. 


Sirs: 

An  invasion  of  Earth  by  Mar- 
tians used  as  a plot  for  a radio 
play  once  threw  thousands  of  peo- 
ple into  a panic.  They  tuned  in 
after  the  play  had  started  and  mis- 
took fiction  for  fact.  The  police 
were  inundated  with  phone  calls 
from  all  parts  of  the  state  from 
terrified  people  supposedly  in  the 
path  of  the  advancing  men  from 
Mars. 

The  idea  was  not  new.  Holly- 
wood producers  and  writers  of 
space  fiction  have  often  used  the 
same  format.  In  fiction,  the  Earth 
peoples  have  always  been  the  vic- 
tims of  the  grotesque,  super-scien- 
tific beings  with  vast  ant-like  heads 

118 


and  antenna-like  limbs  who  in- 
vaded the  Earth  with  the  intention* 
of  conquering  and  enslaving  its 
people. 

The  truth  could  be  just  the  re- 
verse. If  Martians  and  Venusians 
exist,  and  modern  astronomy  sug- 
gests there  may  be  millions  of  in- 
habitable planets,  then  THEY  will 
be  contemplating  our  well  advanced 
plans  for  moon  flight  and  explora- 
tion with  a sense  of  impending 
catastrophe.  If  and  when  we  master 
the  mysteries  and  hazards  of  space 
travel,  and  begin  to  wander  through 
the  trackless  vastnesses  of  galactic 
space  in  our  space  ships  and  rock- 
ets, what  would  be  the  result? 

We  named  Mai's  the  Planet  of 
War  for  no  other  reason  than  the 
fact  that  it  was  red.  Its  redness  was 
innocent  enough.  It  is  only  the  re- 
sult of  great  swirling  clouds  of  dust 
that  constantly  sweep  over  its  arid 
plains  and  deserts.  If  Earth  were 
called  the  Planet  of  War  it  could 
be  so  named  with  far  more  signifi- 
cance. If  peace  loving  peoples  exist 
on  other  worlds  than  our  own,  how 
would  Earth  history  read  to  them? 
They  would  not  need  to  go  back 
500  years,  or  even  50;  five  years  or 
even  five  months  would  be  enough. 
What  would  they  think  of  the 
butchery  of  Budapest?  Of  the  cries 
of  the  ill-fated  Jews  of  Brodnow  as 
the  open  box-cars  of  the  death 
freights  rumbles  through  the  freez- 
ing night  toward  Siberia?  Or  of 
Belsen  and  Dachau?  What  of  the 
horror  and  mortal  agonies  of  Lon- 
don and  Coventry  as  they  were 
reduced  to  shambles  in  World  War 
II? 

In  World  War  I,  the  scarlet 
HUE  AND  CRY 


Flanders  Poppies  spread  a carpet 
of  crimson  loveliness  over  the 
gashes  and  scars  of  war;  but  in 
World  War  II,  the  sons  of  those 
quietly  sleeping  beneath  the  ground 
had  to  drive  their  lumbering  tanks 
over  the  same  battlefields  and  tear 
them  open  again. 

What  of  the  seven  little  Viet- 
namese boys  fleeing  from  the  Com- 
munists, who,  led  by  their  tongue- 
less teacher,  came  staggering  out 
of  the  forest  with  chopsticks 
which  had  been  driven  through 
their  eardrums  still  protruding 
from  their  heads?  If  there  are 
dwellers  on  mighty  Betelgeuse, 
what  would  their  reaction  be  to  the 
hungry  children  prowling  like  tim- 
ber wolves  among  the  ruins  of 
bombed  cities  in  the  tragic  after- 
math  of  war? 

In  the  not-too-distant  future  we 
expect  to  be  able  to  project  some 
kind  of  missile  onto  the  lunar  sur- 
face. We  may  be  ready  scientifically 
for  the  great  adventure  into  space; 
but  are  we  ready  morally? 

Maybe  the  blinding  glares  of  our 
atomic  explosions  flashed  a warn- 
ing understood  by  distant  watching 
eyes,  like  the  glowing  campfires  in 
the  vanguard  of  an  invader.  The 
deepest  apprehension  would  fill  the 


hearts  of  any  intelligent  beings  at 
the  prospect  of  being  indoctrinated 
into  Earth  practices  in  this  20th 
century.  The  Kefauver  Committee 
indicates  that  drug  addicts  from  12 
to  20  years  old  will  pay  more  than 
one  billion  dollars  for  marijuana, 
heroin  and  other  life-wrecking 
drugs  this  year.  In  the  same  period, 
to  raise  this  huge  fortune  thou- 
sands of  major  crimes  will  be  com- 
mitted ranging  from  armed  rob- 
bery to  murder. 

Man  stands  at  the  most  awe- 
inspiring moment  in  his  arduous 
climb  from  stone  age  to  science.  At 
long  last  he  has  raised  his  sights  to 
the  stars.  Now  is  the  time  for  Homo 
Sapiens  to  pause,  take  stock,  clean 
house.  He  knows  the  Golden  Rule, 
now  is  the  time  for  him  to  apply 
its  medication  to  the  open  sores 
of  the  world’s  wounds. 

Let  him  learn  to  beat  his  swords 
into  ploughshares  and  his  spears 
into  pruning  hooks,  then  instead 
of  spreading  consternation  from 
Rigel  to  the  one  trillion  galaxies  in 
the  bowl  of  the  Big  Dipper,  he  will 
come  as  a welcome  ambassador 
bringing  tidings  of  peace. 

— C.  H.  Buncombe 
Tulsa,  Oklahoma 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  SCIENCE  I.Q.? 

ANSWERS:  1— Both  are  parasites.  2—6  (1,  2,  3,) ; 28  (1,  2,  4,  7,  14). 
3 — Chloroplasts.  4 — Uric  acid.  5 — Cellophane.  6 — Both  are  tidal  phe- 
nomena. 7 — Fusion,  fission,  catalyzation.  8 — Argon.  9 — 15.  10 — 12.8 
m.p.h.  11 — Iron,  copper,  zinc,  manganese,  cobalt,  iodine,  boron,  mo- 
lybdenum. 12 — Brazil  Current.  13 — Red  and  blue-violet.  14 — Growth. 
15^ — Wave  cancellation.  16 — Tension,  shear,  bending,  compression.  17 — Y 
chromosomes.  18 — Both  are  absolute  zero.  19 — lyi  times.  20 — It  is  the 
only  even  prime  number. 


HUE  AND  CRY 


119 


THE  POORS 

(Continued  from  page  103) 

Kramvit  felt  himself  being 
lowered  towards  the  stage.  He  was 
helped  out  of  the  booth  by  the 
young  ladies,  and  escorted  to  the 
M.C.  No  trumpets,  now.  The  audi- 
ence was  silent  as  the  M.C.  thanked 
Kramvit,  and  told  him  how 
honored  he  was  to  be  the  first  to 
welcome  the  first  visitor  from  an- 
other planet  on  V.C.  He  also  told 
him  how  sorry  he  was  that  Kram- 
vit had  lost. 

Kramvit  walked  off  stage  while 
the  audience  applauded. 

. . . “The  funny  thing  is,  I 
really  knew  the  answer,”  Kramvit 


was  saying  to  Carrowick,  with  a 
sheepish  grin.  “I  was  just  so  nerv- 
ous. I’m  not  accustomed  to  this 
at  all.” 

“Well,”  said  Carrowick,  “it’s 
nothing  to  worry  about.  As  I said, 
it  was  just  a good  wiU  appear- 
ance.” 

They  were  leaving  the  studio, 
when  a young  man  in  uniform 
approached  Kramvit. 

“Excuse  me,  sir,  a Phonogram 
for  you.” 

Kramvit  looked  at  the  envelope 
and  saw  that  it  was  from  the  High 
Council  of  Six.  He  turned  the 
envelope  over  and  read  the  name. 

It  was  addressed  to,  “Poor  Mr. 
Marry  I KramviV!  END 


OUTSTANDING  PUBLICATIONS  FOR 
CROSSWORD  PUZZLE  LOVERS 

QUALITY  CROSSWORD  PUZZLES— For  those  who  like  them 
medium  to  difficult.  Filled  with  variety,  features  and  articles  to 
fascinate  the  most  rabid  puzzle  doer.  Published  bi-monthly.  At 
all  newsstands — only  25^. 

FAVORITE  CROSSWORD  PUZZLES — America’s  favorite  maga- 
zine for  those  who  like  them  easy  to  medium.  Crosswords, 
crostics,  diagramless,  mazes,  word  games,  etc. ! Intriguing  features 
about  words  and  puz.zles.  Published  bi-monthly.  At  all  news- 
stands— only  25^ 

MASTER  CROSSWORD  PUZZLES — One  of  the  most  challenging 
books  in  America  containing  puzzles  composed  by  experts  for 
expert  doers.  Crosswords,  crostics,  diagramless,  cryptograms. 
Published  annually.  At  your  news  dealer’s  or  direct  from  the 
publisher — only  35^ 

FAVORITE  PUZZLES  AND  QUIZZES— The  biggest  selection  of 
puzzles,  word  games,  math  games,  mental  tests,  quizzes,  etc.,  ever 
published  at  the  price.  200  pages  full  of  pleasure  for  parties, 
shut-ins,  folks  of  all  ages!  Order  from  publisher — only  50^. 

QUINN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  INC,  Kingston,  New  York 


120 


exciting 

Side 

Your 


^pUND . j 
?il«v4r 


SCIENCE 
fiction  , 


tCl 


OF  THESE 


SCIENCE-FICTION 


BEST  SELLERS 

WORTH  UP  TO  $11  95  IN  PUBLISHERS'  EDITIONS 


i,ienee-Fietion  C/ob's  Anting 

^%oon-T^  Offer  • • •[  7wnTr“TT — ■ 


continued  from  Back  Cover 

NOW  you  can  get  an  authen- 
tic Round-Trip  Reservation 
to  the  Moon  Free  when  you  take 
the  Lunar  Quiz  on  other  side — 
Plus  any  3 of  the  masterpieces 
of  Science-Fiction  described  on 
this  page  for  only  $1.  Each  is 
packed  with  rocket-swift  ad- 


venture that  takes  you  soaring 
in  time  and  space . . . written  by 
the  greatest  science-fiction 
writers.  A $11.95  value,  full- 
length,  full-size,  in  handsome, 
permanent  bindings  — and  all 
yours  for  only  $1  on  this  amaz- 
ing offer  I 


TREASURY  OF  SCIENCE-FICTION 
CLASSICS.  4 famous  novels ; a complete 
play ; scores  of  all-time  great  S-F 
stories,  including  H.  G.  Wells'  “Inva- 
sion from  Mars.”  made  famous  by  Orson 
Welles'  hoax  newscast.  (Pub.  ed.  $2.95) 

OMNIBUS  OF  SCIENCE-FIC- 
TION. 43  classic  stories  by  top  au- 
thors. Wonders  of  Earth  and  Man. 
Amazing  Inventions.  Space  travel 
and  visitors  from  outer  space.  Ad- 
ventures in  dimension.  Worlds  of 
Tomorrow.  (Pub.  ed.  $3.50) 

THE  ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE- 
FICTION  ANTHOLOGY.  A story 


about  the  first  A-Bomb  . . . written 
before  it  was  invented!  Plus  a score 
of  other  best  tales  from  a dozen 
years  of  Astounding  Science  Fic- 
tion Magazine.  (Pub.  ed.  $3.50) 

REPORT  ON  UNIDENTIFIED 
FLYING  OBJECTS  by  Edward  J. 
Ruppelt.  The  first  authoritative 
report  on  hitherto  hushed-up  facts 
about  "flying  saucers”  ...  by  a for- 
mer Air  Force  expert  in  charge  of 
their  investigation.  NOT  fiction,  but 
amazing  FACT!  (Pub.  ed.  $4.95) 

DRAGON  IN  THE  SEA  by  Frank 
Herbert.  You're  on  a 21st-century 
undersea  mission  from  which  no 
human  has  ever  returned.  Now  8,- 
000  feet  down,  you  learn  that  an  un- 
known crewman  wants  you  DEAD! 
(Pub.  ed.  $2.95) 

THE  BEST  FROM  FANTASY 
AND  SCIENCE-FICTION.  (New 

edition)  17  thrilling  stories  select- 
ed from  Fantasy  and  Science- Fic- 
tion Magazine.  Adventure  in  other 
worlds  . . . mystery.  Intrigue,  sus- 
pense! (Pub.  ed.  $3.50) 


YOUR  choice  of  ANY  3 of  the  new 
^ Science- Fiction  masterpieces  describ- 
ed here — At  Only  $1  for  All  Three — 
Plus  Free  Round-Trip  Reservation  to 
the  Moon.  (See  other  side.)  Two  books 
are  your  gift  for  joining,  and  one  is 
your  first  Club  selection.  Every  month, 
you  will  be  offered  the  “cream”  of  the 
new  $2.50  to  $3.95  Science-Fiction  books 
—for  only  $1.  You  take  only  those  books 
you  really  want — as  few  as  four  a year. 
This  offer  may  have  to  be  withdrawn.  So 
mail  coupon  Right  Now  to; 

SCIENCE-FICTION  BOOK  CLUB 
Dept.  IF-10,  Garden  City.  N.  Y. 


SCIENCE-FICTION  BOOK  CLUB 
Dept.  IF-10,  Garden  City,  N.  Y. 

I have  completed  quiz  on  other  side.  Please  send  FREE  Moon- 
Tour  Resenation.  Also  rush  3 books  checked  below,  as  my  gift  books 
and  first  selection.  Bill  me  only  $1  (plus  shipping  charge),  and 
enroll  me  as  a member.  Every  month  send  the  Club's  free  bulletin, 
so  that  I may  decide  whether  I wish  to  receive  the  coming  selection. 
For  each  book  I accept,  I will  pay  only  $1  plus  shipping.  I need  take 
only  4 books  during  each  year  I am  a member — and  I may  resign  at 
any  time  after  accepting  4 selections. 

GUARANTEE:  If  not  delighted,  I may  return  all  books  In  7 days, 
pay  nothing,  and  this  membership  will  be  cancelled. 


□ Astounding  S-F  Anthology 
n Bast  from  Fantasy  and  S-F 

□ Dragon  in  the  Sea 

Name 


□ Omnibus  of  Science-Fiction 

□ Report  on  UFO’s 

□ Treasury  of  S-F  Classics 

(PLEASE  PRINT) 


Address- 
City 


. Zone 


. State- 


Selection  price  in  Canada  $1.10  plus  shipping.  Address 
Science-Fiction  Club,  105  Bond  Street,  Toronto  2. 
(Offer  good  only  in  U.  S.  and  Canada) 


Take  This  Lunar  Quiz 

r afu/  WIN  A ROUND-TRIP 
^RESERVATION  TO  THE  MOON 


CAN  YOU  PASS  THIS  LUNAR  QUIZ? 


SCIENCE-FICTION 


How  much  do  you  know  about  the  Moon  ? Circle  the  answers 
you  think  are  correct,  fill  out  reverse  side,  and  mail  today 
for  your  Genuine  Moon-Tour  Reservation  Certificate, 


1.  Diameter  of  the  Moon  is:  smaller  — greater  — the  same  as 
Earth’s. 


2.  Since  its  gravity  is  weaker  than  Earth's,  on  the  Moon  you 
would  weigh:  more  — less  than  on  Earth. 

3.  The  Moon  is  reaily  a:  star  — satellite  — planet, 

4.  Distance  to  the  Moon  is  about:  93,000.000  miles  — 238,000 
miles  — 9,000  miles. 


5.  Scientists  have  proved  that  human  life  does  — does  not  exist 
on  the  Moon. 


6.  Surface  of  the  Moon  is  rough  — smooth  — covered  with  w^ater. 


IMPORTANT:  This  application  will  NOT  be  honored 
unless  filled  out  and  signed  on  the  reverse  side. 


SEE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  COUPON  FOR  UP  TO  $11.95  WORTH 
OF  SCIENCE-FICTION  BEST  SELLERS  FOR  ONLY  $1.00! 


Bonafide  Reservation  for  one  of 
the  first  commercial  flights  to  the  Moon 


'VT'ES,  a passing  grade  on  this  Lunar  Quiz  will 
^ bring  you  — Absolutely  Free  — a genuine 
round-trip  Reservation  which  certifies  that  you 
are  among  the  Very  First  to  apply  for  passage 
to  the  Moon  ! Although  it  in  no  way  commits  you 
to  make  the  voyage,  it  signifies  that  your  name 
is  filed  in  Science-Fiction  Book  Club  archives  to 
be  turned  over  to  the  first  commercial  company 
making  trips  to  the  Moon. 

Your  reservation  includes  many  amazing 
facts : your  actual  weight  on  the  Moon,  a Rocket 
Ship  Schedule,  etc.  To  get  your  wallet-size  Moon 
Tour  Reservation  right  away,  take  the  Quiz 
below.  Then  choose  Any  3 of  the  exciting  books 
described  on  the  other  side — for  only  $1  with 
membership  in  the  Science- Fiction  Book  Club. 
Mail  coupon  at  once! 


OP  THESE  COMPLETE  NEW  MASTERPIECES  OF